The Trials of Scorpius Malfoy
by stillroisin
Summary: Scorpius has spent his whole trying to keep his head down. Seventh year brings the revival of an ancient tradition, putting his father's rules to the test. Will Scorpius succeed in staying out of the spotlight, or will the Malfoy name go up in flames?
1. The Old House

**Author's Note:** I only just realized that I fail at formatting on this site! Huge apologies to anyone who read before, because it was all lightweight incoherent without the line breaks and all. I still haven't figured out how to make double spaces for scene breaks (they keep getting deleted). For formatting reasons, I've decided to give this story a permanent home on inkitt. You can find it by searching "trials of scorpius malfoy" over there. Thanks so much for bearing with me!

 **CHAPTER ONE  
** _Scorpius Malfoy tries to keep his head down._

* * *

The house where I grew up is like a clown with two faces.

My aunt took me to the Hogsmeade Summer Festival when I was six. I remember dizzying lights flashing blue, green, red. Popcorn kernels stuck where gums met tooth. Children swung from their parents' hands, watching as a patchwork curtain rose.

My cousin Phoebe giggled while the clown wrung his hands and stumbled across the stage. Blue eyebrows arched up impossibly high at the center. Silly concern and worry. Then, twisting around, he showed his other face. Snake eyes flashed red and I shrunk behind Auntie's skirts.

I remember carnival lights throwing an eerie glow over the watching crowd. Later, biscuits and pumpkin juice in Auntie's kitchen.

"Are you still afraid because of the clown, darling?"

My nails scratched at sharp kernels lodged in teeth.

Our house has one face looking east to the dawn. Fresh and new, and not much older than myself. We come in through the eastern drive and live behind these eastern windows. But there is another road that snakes in from the west, to the other face. Its teeth are a wrought iron cage. A spiking upper lip announces 'Malfoy Manor.' No lights twinkle behind these dead eyes.

We call this face 'the Old House,' and we are never to go inside.

* * *

Cobwebs dangle from the chandelier as my keen eyes scan the gloom. Decades of dust muffles each step. Listening hard for any sounds outside I feel my anxious blood thrumming in my ears. Rustling explodes from the far end of the parlor. A door bangs against the wall.

"Merlin, Sylvia!" My breath is still frozen in my lungs as she swoops down from the doorframe. "You scared me!"

An envelope swings merrily from her ankle. I feel the gentle bite of her talons against my forearm as I scramble to untie it.

Glancing over the inscription, I let myself marvel again at Al's genius.

 _Scorpius Hyperion  
Malfoy Manor  
Western Face  
Wiltshire, England_

He's been sending letters to the Old House all summer, and my fear of getting caught by Father is tempered by how much I miss Al over the holidays. Greedy fingers break sealing wax and the parchment whispers as I unfold it.

 _S,  
Have you heard yet? My dad only just told me (I'm sure you can imagine the lecture). He reckons you've heard by now, what with one of Draco's companies sponsoring and all. I'm half impressed you kept the secret. Half utterly devastated, of course (you and your bloody poker face. Even in written correspondences... Somehow). _

I can almost see Al in the curves of his y's and the way the dots of his i's look more like accents. A smile tugs the corners of my lips but I'm baffled by what he's on about. Whatever Father might be sponsoring, I haven't heard a word. It makes me giddy to be caught between my curiosity to learn more, and my desire to savor the shape of every word.

At first, I almost don't hear the limousine sighing up the eastern drive.

"Damn! Slyvia, go!" I usher my tawny owl out the Old House door and yank it closed behind me. Overgrown hedges cast shadows over the grounds, thick with weeds. For the space of a breath, I fret. Al's half-read letter waits in one hand while, around the manor, my father's car grumbles to a stop.

Making my choice, I shove the parchment into my breast pocket and break into a stumbling run.

* * *

"What's happened to him?" Daddy stood framed in the doorway, his travelling cloak spilling down his shoulders and pooling at his feet. Moonlight always robbed him of color, leaving only the black robes and white skin in the dark.

"Oh, he'll be alright." Aunt Daphne curled her warm fingers around mine and lead me from the table. "There was a clown at the festival that frightened him a bit so we left. Just worn out after a long day and too many sweets."

"He looks ill," he said. Behind him, the limousine's headlamps shone in the mist. I tightened my grip around my aunt's hand and found protection again in the shield of her skirts.

It wasn't until I started crying, refusing to go back home, that Daphne explained about the clown.

"What do you mean, two faces?" There was something angry, even offended, by the way he asked. "Was it supposed to be Quirrel?"

"Yes," Daphne sighed. "I believe so. There was a mirror onstage and all, but we left before the actor playing Potter arrived."

"What were they thinking, staging something like that for children." Father seized my other hand and turned on his heel into the night. "Absolutely inappropriate."

It was years before I understood what the play had been about.

* * *

"You were outside?" Father asks as I push through the doors, and it's more like an accusation than a question.

"Yeah," I say, trying not to look tired after running the length of our property. "Went for a walk in the woods."

Our parlor couldn't be more different from its western counterpart. While the Old House is all grandeur and embellishments and antiquity, our house is simple and plain. Father began building this addition after the war alone, so no wainscotting crusts the walls. Each room is little more than a whitewashed cube.

"Well be careful." Father sniffs. "Don't stray past the Muggle wards."

That I'm already fully dressed in my Muggle clothes for King's Cross seems lost on him. Rather than point it out or argue, I just slouch into the kitchen and picture what Rosie would say.

 _Oooh, blonde bloke walking down a country road in Wiltshire, alert the bloody press!_

I almost laugh imagining her voice, the way she scrunches her nose when she's annoyed, and feel another pang like homesickness. They've been coming all summer, but this time I don't push the feeling away. In just over an hour I'll be back on the Hogwarts Express.

Hot tea chokes in my throat as I realize my luggage isn't where I left it.

"Dad!"

"Don't shout, Scorpius."

"Dad?" I ask again, turning into the parlor. "Have you seen my trunk and things?"

His eyes don't stray from his newspaper. "They're in the boot."

"But—" I falter. "I can just apparate there. I've had my license for months now, and you said once I started school..."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't see any reason why you need to apparate at all before you've graduated. Mortdecai will drive."

I suspect he's jealous; his apparition license was stripped before I was born. If I were a different sort of child, I'd point out that I'm of age and can do whatever I want. If I were a different child, I'd have been apparating all summer long rather than sitting at home, complicit in my own captivity. But I am not a different child, so I march out to the limousine while Mortdecai holds the door open.

A silent half hour stretches before we're on Euston Road, slipping through too-small gaps and overtaking the crush of minicabs. We shudder to a stop outside the train station and Mortdecai leaps out to fetch a trolley.

"Are you coming in?" I ask, gaze still fixed outside the tinted windows, but I already know the answer.

"Best not." Father says. "Promise me, son—"

"Keep to myself. Keep my head down. Keep a low profile. Got it."

"It's critically important." His advancing forehead wrinkles with worry and he looks solemn and pained. Even more so than usual.

I just shrug. "Yeah, 'course. I know."

"This year more than any other before," he presses.

I notice that he's looking at me, not his newspaper. Odd.

"Is there something I should know?" I measure my words carefully, remembering Al's letter still waiting in my breast pocket. "Is there something happening this year?"

A sniff. A gaze, averted. "Nothing I know of."

He's lying, but there's no way to argue. Not without revealing that I heard something from Al, which would mean admitting to communicating with Al, which would mean telling my father that I even know Al at all.

 _Keep to yourself. Keep your head down. Keep a low profile._ These are the rules we live by. But there's another, yet more important rule. So grave that it remains unspoken. The "Voldemort" of rules. Something more present for never being named—not since before I started my first year at Hogwarts.

And whatever you do, no matter what happens, stay away from Harry Potter's children.

Well.

The real Voldemort didn't stand a chance against Harry, and the Voldemort of Rules had been easily defeated by his son.

Mortdecai holds open my door and I bid my father a quick farewell. For a moment, I think he's going to say something. I look back but he's immersed in his newspaper again, disappearing as the tinted window rises.

Mortdecai marches into the station beside me and I mumble my thanks. There's something depressing about getting waved off by hired help. Our footwizard just tips his hat before bowing back out to the limousine, and I continue the rest of the way alone.

Melting through the barrier onto platform 9¾ I hear the familiar chaos swell around me. More than a thousand chattering voices rise, criss-crossed with delighted shouts of greetings and goodbyes. I make halting progress pushing my trolley through the swarm, cut off every few seconds by some younger student darting blind across my path. A few curious eyes turn my way. Parents of first years, probably. Most everyone else has gotten used to me. _The Malfoy Boy_. I've spent six years securing my place in the periphery.

"Scor!" My heart leaps to hear my name. The forger of looped y's and dashed i's, the author of my summer's only comfort, is stood waving across the platform. It takes everything I have not to abandon my trolley and break into a run.

"Al." I grin as I draw near, but step back before he can go in for a hug. The other students know we hang out, and they've had years to get accustomed to that fact. So far, nothing's gotten back to my father because, so far, no one's had a good enough reason to want to talk to the ex-Death Eater.

For his son to suddenly start snogging Harry Potter's son would amount to a Good Reason—a headline even—so we keep our distance. Luckily, Al's not annoyed by this. He's as private as I am, and wants the press almost as little. Instead we share a smile. Small, and conspiratorial. It's the happiest I've been in months.

"How was your summer, Scorpius?" Mrs Potter sounds gentle, but I'm mortified for failing to greet her. Worse so, her husband.

"Yes, sorry! Good." I nod. "Thank you for asking. And yourself?"

There's a sadness to Ginny Potter's smile whenever she looks at me and I've never known what to make of it. I listen politely while she talks about Quidditch, but there's a worse discomfort at her side. Harry Potter's eyes—so like Al's. They have a way of finding cracks and prying them open. I'd write it off as simple legilimency, but somehow it seems more profound. I worry what he thinks of me, because I know he thinks _something._

"Stupid Scor!" Rosie nearly pushes me to the ground with the gruffness of her hug. "Stupid Scor who doesn't use his stupid apparition even though he's _stupid_ of age!"

Rosie is one of the few people who looks exactly like what she is. Chaotic hair, all red ringlets like an explosion of corkscrews; skin that's roughly fifty per cent freckle. She'd be beautiful, if she weren't so _obviously_ mad.

The look her dad gives me might cause worry, but I know he knows I'm gay. I try for a smile and he replies with a nod. Good enough.

Retreating into the sidelines, I let Al and his small sampling of extended family trade last remarks and farewells. Blending into the background is my forte. It isn't until the warning whistle that the others even remember I'm there.

"Bye Mr Potter, Mrs Potter." I incline my head, swishing my wand to raise my trunk.

"Ginny is _fine_ ," she says, then surprises me with a hug. I lose focus and my luggage crashes to the ground. "And even the aurors don't call Harry 'Mr Potter.' Or, _especially_ not the aurors."

"Right." I nod and Al gives his mum a final kiss on the cheek.

"And remember!" Harry calls after his son. "You are expressly forbidden from trying to enter!"

"I know," Al yells back over his shoulder. "Don't worry, I'm not _James._ "

"If you go and die on me, I'll kill you!" Ginny shouts as the doors close behind us.

The wheels creak against the track and I fix him with a look. "Sorry, what are they talking about?"

"Didn't you get my owl?" he asks, pushing into a compartment.

"Yeah, right…" I pat at my breast pocket and feel the stiffness of parchment beneath. "Draco came back and I had to do a runner. I was right curious, but things kept happening and then I was here and I saw you in real life so..."

"You should read it." Al cracks an uncharacteristic smirk.

"Now?"

His smile deepens as he settles into his seat. "Yeah."

The Hogwarts Express picks up steam and the groaning of our departure softens to a hum. I feel silly sitting down across him and tugging out his letter while he watches on.

 _So I can't believe I never thought of this before, but yeah, it's been about thirty years. I guess now that Riddle's dead, and that was the big problem last time, the schools involved thought it was about time to revive the TriWizard Tournament._

 _Mad decision, really, but should make for an interesting year…_


	2. Birth Mark

**CHAPTER TWO  
** _Scorpius tries stay behind._

* * *

Little more than a smudge remained. Like a birthmark, but impossibly darker. I was nine when I first saw it, and surprised that I could have missed something about him for so long. Missed something as simple as a birthmark. Missed something as important as a birthmark that was not a birthmark.

( _Once upon a time, there was a very bad wizard…_ )

"What's that?" I traced one white finger over his forearm.

"You don't touch that," he hissed, hoisting me off of his lap. "You never touch that."

( _And this bad wizard knew how to trick people..._ )

I always felt afraid when Father spoke that way. An urgency sharpened his voice if ever I broke The Rules. No talking in public. No making eye contact with certain people. I spent years thinking 'Muggle' was a bad word, because we were never to speak of them outside of the house.

"This is the reason," he tugged his sleeve down over the mark, "we keep our heads down. This is the reason we keep a low profile."

( _...How to manipulate people, and how to get them on his side…_ )

I might have been a child, but I wasn't stupid. I knew that my cousin Phoebe's life was different than mine. That she studied reading and maths and things with other young witches and wizards in her area. Had friends and sleepovers. I pretty much only ever spoke to family, occasionally, and hired help, awkwardly.

I knew that she had two sets of grandparents. Two grandfathers. One that she shared with me, but another as well. I wondered why I didn't. When I asked about his father, he said he didn't have one. When I asked if he used to, once, he said No.

( _The bad wizard knew how to get people on his side. He promised them things he would never really give them, and so they joined him._ )

Half truths. Things left unspoken. Secrets made stronger, heavier, and more terrifying for never being named.

( _Some joined him willingly and some were forced..._ )

There was another face behind our house. We never went there, and I knew it scared him, but I didn't know _why._

( _Some felt so confused, they didn't know what they even wanted at all..._ )

I remember a fight. A woman with honey-blonde hair shouting at him while Aunt Daphne tried to calm her down. I remember the feeling of cold balustrades against my cheeks while I watched from the mezzanine above.

( _And some people didn't join the bad wizard. They fought him instead. And those people were very, very good._ )

"You must send him to Hogwarts! I won't stand for it if you don't, I have rights, you know!" Her voice sounded shrill. Dangerous, in a small way. A trapped mouse that might bite, leaving one round, red drip at the end of your finger. Aunt Daphne held her tight while the woman thrashed her arms, sometimes slapping or kicking at Father, but he didn't fight back. Didn't _step_ back. Didn't even recoil.

( _Those people were a special kind of good. Much better than myself. One of those people was a boy named…_ )

"You have to understand how hard it will be for him there…" Father's voice was little more than a murmur. The clamor of the woman's kicks overwhelmed his words, and I heard only a name. A name I knew, but didn't know. A name I was never to say, but always to hear. Whispered behind closed doors.

(... _Harry Potter._ )

Leaning forward, I struggled to make out what my father was saying. Too late I saw Daphne, looking.

"Shit!" She let go of the struggling woman and cast a binding charm.

I tried to scramble away as Daphne's footfalls landed on the steps behind me. Her warm hand caught my back before I was through the door.

"Hey there, Scorpius." She knelt down to catch my eyes. "Let's get you to bed."

( _I wasn't one of the very, very good people..._ )

She hummed as she tucked me in, her charm silencing the shouts from below. Thumps and stomps still radiated through the floor and rattled the door. Daphne's gentle thumb wiped a tear from under my eye. I turned away.

"I'm sorry you had to see all that."

"Who is that lady?" I sniffled. "Why is she here?"

She was saying the bad things. The bad words. Speaking to the unspoken, and the things that should never be spoken. And she'd opened something, as well.

Daphne looked stunned. "She's your mother."

I could tell she hadn't meant to say it, but didn't know how not to say it. Something had been opened.

( _I wasn't one of the really good people, and your father wasn't one of the really bad people. But…_ )

"What's happening?" I moaned. "Why is everything like this?"

Her hand smoothed my already smooth covers. "Well," she sighed. "It all started a very long time ago. And once upon a time, there was a very bad wizard…"

( _Your father did a number of very, very bad things._ )

* * *

"An entire year at Beauxbatons!" Rosie squeals, scratching butter onto her toast. "You know all seventh years have the option to just stay on the whole time—not just the champions."

The school is still alight with chatter after Headmistress McGonagall's announcement at last night's feast. _TriWizard Tournament. Beauxbatons to host. All seventh years required to visit host school until champions have been chosen._ The hardest part had been sitting through it all alone. While Hufflepuff is objectively the best place to be, I hate it when Al is sequestered with the Slytherins and Rosie is gobbled up by Gryffindors. Most meals, we sit where we please, but feast nights demand a certain decorum.

"An entire year at Beauxbatons!" She says again, mouth crowded with food.

My own toast sags under the weight of its own marmalade and I feel queasy. Al's hand snakes around mine under the table so I squeeze back. I worry that I might puke if I try to say something.

"You OK?" Even out of the corner of my eye, I can see the intensity of his green gaze.

"I'mnuhging," I mumble.

Rosie washes down her toast with a mouthful of coffee. "Pardon?"

"I'm not going," I say again.

All down the Hufflepuff table, conversation hasn't strayed far from the exciting news. Or devastating news, depending on your perspective.

Everyone's giving Al and Rosie side-long glances, and I've overheard a fair amount of speculation that either of them would be a strong candidate for champion. Both are so used to hearing their names in idle gossip that they've turned deaf to it, but even across the Hall, I can hear a pair of Ravenclaws placing bets on which one has the better chance ( _Granger beats Potter any day! Everyone knows that Harry would have been useless without Hermione!_ )

For the first time, I wish the Great Hall didn't show us the sky above. It makes me feel exposed.

"I think you, like, _have_ to go," Rosie says and Al just gives my hand another squeeze.

"Don't you lot see what's going on?" My voice is rising with my panic. "Everyone's looking at us."

"Everyone's always looking at us." She shrugs.

"Not like this. The Tournament is going to be a huge press circus, and now… Well, _you two_ are possible entrants. You know what's going to happen."

What's going to happen, is that there will be press access to everything all seventh years do, and we've never had to deal with journalists at school before. As the children of the Wizarding World's biggest celebrities, Al and Rosie will have the media watching their every move. As the child of one of the Wizarding World's most notorious villains, I'll have it just as bad. Worse, probably. Depending on your perspective.

Secrets won't stay secrets. Things better left unspoken, spoken.

I feel Al sigh beside me and I know he's worried too.

"We only have to stay those first few days," he says. "Once the champions have been chosen, we can come back."

Across the Hall, the Ravenclaws are still placing bets. ( _Do you think Malfoy will go for it?_ If Weasley and Potter do than yeah, he does whatever they do. _Yeah, he'll probably want to win some glory for the old family name_ ).

Shit.

"You guys," I gulp, hating what I'm about to say. "We probably shouldn't even be hanging out at all right now."

Each and every seventh year will have the opportunity to get interviewed, and each and every one of them will face questions about exactly three people.

When the bell rings for start of lessons, I feel my chest unclench. But only just.

* * *

"Now remember everyone," Professor Madley calls as we finish scouring our cauldrons. "Your visit to France is going to interrupt the curriculum, and you still have your N.E.W.T.s at the end of the year. Please use these two months to get ahead. Sign-ups for Potions Club are still open, and that's a great way to get some extra work in."

Chairs scrape back from workstations even before she's done talking. Every student is left frizzy-haired and exhausted after the grueling double period. Rosie alone seems chipper as she packs up her bag. Then again, she spent most of the lesson figuring out how to make things explode; literally blowing off steam. And sparks. And a thick, green gas that sent the class cowering in a corner until Madley could clear it.

I've heard that Muggles have a stereotype about witches cackling. I'm left to assume that Muggles have only ever met witches like Rosie.

"Come on, let's go," she whispers while I dawdle. "Madley's been giving me that look like she might tell me off."

She's not wrong. It's the 'you are obviously very clever why do you refuse to behave yourself' look. All the professor's know that Rosie would be top of our year if she gave a damn, and they hate that she doesn't.

"You go," I say. "I think this cauldron needs another go and I don't want it to rust."

Rosie just shrugs and bounces toward the door but I hear her say "liar" as it snaps shut.

"Is everything alright, Scorpius?" Madley is the sort of professor who uses first names and wants everyone to call her 'Emily.' I refuse on principle, especially as I like her. "I think I know why you might be upset."

Looking up, I see her pushing aside hastily abandoned chairs to approach me. Madley doubles as Hogwarts Guidance Counselor as well as my Head of House so she's seen me cry enough times that I don't feel weird about it anymore. She probably _does_ know exactly why I'm freaking out.

"I don't think I should go to Beauxbatons." I stop pretend-cleaning my cauldron. "It's just one weekend, so why not stay here? And… School. Exams. _School._ It's a pretty big distraction."

"Well…" She's biting her lip in that way that means I'm out of luck and there's nothing she can do for me even though she really wants to. "Like you said. It's just one weekend, and then you can come back. You can catch that up easily."

Our silence rings out in the stagnant dungeon.

"It's not about school at all though is it?"

"No, it's not about school at all."

Professor Madley smiles. "Think about it this way, the press will be so focused on the Tournament that they'll forget about everything else. And pretty much all of the seventh year class will stay on at Beauxbatons. So if you come back to Hogwarts after the Champions are chosen, it might be a really relaxing year for you. You could go to Hogsmeade for once!"

There it is.

But.

"The press that first weekend," I say, shoulders drooping. "It's always worst at the very beginning. All that speculation."

Madley just bites her lip again.

Dammit.

* * *

Beads of sweat erupt across my forehead, gathering and pooling until they drop. Already hazy vision blurs against the salt dampening my eyelashes. My brain is on fire. My skin shivers with fever. I feel each muscle scream as I climb the stairs to the infirmary, and then the world lurches to the left.

Head cracks stone. Body crumples, defeated, on the steps. I've lost my balance, and I may never find it again. The convulsions begin just as I'm ready to give up.

"Mr Malfoy!" Madame Longbottom cries, tugging me up by the scruff of my neck.

The familiar whiteness of the hospital wing is recognizable even in my daze. Maybe especially. Cool sheets come as a relief against my scorching skin.

"What have you done this time?" the Matron demands; a vague silhouette swimming before my eyes.

"I'm… Very ill." Bile rises in my throat and I choke.

"I'm sure you are. What is this—twelve, no, _thirteen_ squares of Fever Fudge?"

"Erm…"

Before I can come up with a decent lie, Madame Longbottom is tipping potion down my throat. She knows I must have the antidote stashed somewhere on my person, but she also knows it's all together snappier to force-feed me the solution. The pain is fierce, no matter how manufactured, so I gulp despite myself. Stupid body and its stupid will to survive. I crash back on the bed and catch my breath as my symptoms fade.

"I'm not giving you a note to get out of the ceremony," she says. "And I recommend you stop crying werewolf, lest you plan on ever becoming legitimately ill at some point in the rest of your life."

Details sharpen as the last of the pain ebbs. Madame Longbottom has her arms crossed tight across her chest—half annoyed, half mildly amused. I think.

"What if you just helped me out here?" I try for a winning smile. "It's not like I even want to enter my name in the Cup anyway, so why should I bother visiting the host school at all?"

She's shaking her head before I even finish my very persuasive argument. "It's not up to me, Mister Malfoy. The TriWizard Tournament creates a number of binding contracts. By enrolling at Hogwarts at all you agree to participate in the ceremony."

"What if—" She's hoisting my arm up from the sickbed, but I'm framing a very unfortunate exit strategy. "What if I wasn't enrolled at Hogwarts anymore?"

"No." She tugs the Hospital Wing door open and pushes me out. "Whatever you're worried will happen, it won't ever be as bad as you giving up on all of your potential this close to getting your qualifications."

The door slams in my face, and I'm not sure how to feel.

* * *

September passes faster than any month before and excitement about the upcoming delegation to Beauxbatons begins to dampen. Seventh year is challenging enough as it is, and every professor is concerned that the courses abroad won't sufficiently prepare us to sit British N.E.W.T.s in May. A veritable mountain of coursework overwhelms me, so for a while, I am distracted from the horror that is to come. It helps that there has been no new Tournament information since the start of term feast. Discussion dries up.

When the leaves begin to change, the excitement reinvigorates. Notices appear in Common Rooms and the Headmistress makes new announcements during meals. Never before have I seen Hogwarts students so interested to hear about rules, regulations, and protocol. Even something as banal as reminders about dress codes constitute the first fresh meat in weeks. My fellow students pounce.

"What if we don't speak French?" Rosie crunches dry leaves under her boots while we weave down the edge of the forest. "How will we do our lessons and things?"

"But you do speak French," Albus says.

" _Ouais._ " She shrugs. "But _what if_ I didn't?"

"There'll be translation enchantments in certain areas," I say. "Hogwarts students will be able to hear lessons as if they were spoken in English, but it might get a little wonky on nuanced terms."

Al and Rosie both stop and raise their brows.

"I've been trying to find a loophole," I explain, then start walking again. "I think I might be an expert on every subtlety of this delegation thing."

I know which teachers will be staying on at Hogwarts (Deputy Headmaster), which will be traveling abroad to the host school (Headmistress and Guidance), and which will be present and to what degree during each step of the way (various). My Runes translation chart is a bloody thrilling read in comparison.

There's a pause before the rhythmic crackle of Rosie's footsteps starts again. "Well that's kind of lame, about the lessons being translated to English. What if I want to improve my French?"

"It doesn't matter." Al's voice sounds colder than normal and I feel his fingers lace into mine. "It's not like we'll all be staying or anything. As soon as the champions are chosen, we come right back. Let the paparazzi have the Tournament and leave us alone."

I pull my hand away under the pretense of checking my cloak pocket, then leave it there.

"I know," Rosie says with the tinge of apology. "I was just saying. You know. _What if_."

No one speaks for a while. I glance down at my watch more than I should, trying to see the time, but I just keep staring at the moon cycle around the circumference. A reminder of today's date. The Hogwarts Delegation will be departing in less than two weeks.

"What's the time?" Rosie asks as I glance away from my wrist again. I realize I have no idea.


	3. Unforgivable by Definition

**A/N:** AH I'M SO SORRY. I completely messed up uploading this story, and accidentally posted Ch4 twice, completely skipping out on Ch3! I apologize so much for any and all confusion that might have caused!

 **CHAPTER THREE  
** _Scorpius tries to think of it as a vacation._

* * *

 _Dear Scorpius,_

 _I can't say I'm not disappointed. I realize it must be difficult to feel left out of a special opportunity, but we simply can't afford for you to join the Hogwarts Delegation. Our assets remain available, and our business interests intact, only because I have managed to shelter us from scrutiny. Our success in industry is contingent upon our near anonymity. Investors will flee if they even suspect that the Malfoy name may attract negative attention. Understand that this is your inheritance I am trying to protect._

 _More critically, and you know I resent discussing this, but my freedom remains only tenuous. You are well aware of how much we rely on Potter's support. If at any point he changes his mind, I will be whisked off for many cumulative life sentences in Azkaban, our assets will be seized, and you will be left an orphan. Worse still, a disgraced orphan. As you study alongside Potter's son and niece-in-law, you should see how precarious a weekend abroad may be, without the buffer of the additional student body. I have reason to believe that Mr Potter's support is reasonably stable as of yet, but I have no idea what resentments those children may have toward our name._

 _Please, Scorpius. It is of critical importance that you change your mind about this whole visit to France and stay behind at Hogwarts where you belong._

"Merlin," Rosie sighs, folding the parchment in two with disdain. "What a tosser."

Dawn reaches up to lighten the ceiling while the sleepy seventh years take an early breakfast. The Great Hall feels oddly empty and quiet without the other students around. Our trunks sit packed back in our dormitories. My hands tremble in my lap.

"I mean…" Roisie goes on. "Can't you just tell him? I feel like if he knew we're mates and all—if he knew the truth about you and Al? I mean… Wouldn't that clear a lot of this up?"

My father's owl ruffles her milky feathers and I try not to blame the messenger.

"He. Doesn't. Listen." My skin stretches taut over my face and it's a struggle to get the words out at all. "Can't you see? He doesn't even listen! He's acting like I want to go with everyone to Beauxbatons. I've owled him every day explaining everything I tried, but he won't listen to me!"

Al tries to lay a hand on my knee but I snap away, conscious of the eyes all around us.

"What a sodding tosser," she hisses again, tapping her fingernails against the table. I can tell Al is giving her a Shut Up sort of look, but she hasn't noticed. "Like... I feel kind of personally offended by what he wrote. Like I would blame you for something he did more than twenty years ago. And it's not like—"

"Rosie." Al's voice is even. "Shut up now."

My shaking hands rise over my face and my chest closes in on itself. Al stopped her, but I know what she was about to say. Fact: Draco Malfoy helped torture Hermione Granger in 1998. That's one life sentence in Azkaban. Rosie's tried to brush this off before, but the curse is 'Unforgivable' by definition.

And she wonders why the mere concept of her mum terrifies me.

There's a lump in my throat that won't get swallowed away. My shoulders start to quake. I know people must be looking now because Al hasn't laid a hand on my back.

"Scor, hey." His voice is quiet and close to my ear. "Maybe you should take some potion."

I try to nod that he's right, mopping at my wet cheeks in vain. The sedative is down in my trunk because, like an idiot, I didn't bring any up with me. Stupid. I should have known I'd need a sedative today.

My foot catches the bench as Al tries to guide me. The scratch of wood against flagstone rings loud in the near silent Hall and with so few people around, I know that everyone must be staring. I try to keep my breathing steady while Al leads me away. I can break down once I don't have an audience.

"Taking him to the Basement," Al murmurs. I look up to see Professor Madley biting her lip.

Technically, members of another House aren't allowed in the Hufflepuff Basement. And technically, we're not supposed to be returning to dorms right now at all for attendance-checking reasons. But Madley prescribed me the anti-anxiety potion in the first place and can see the way my chest is starting to heave with hyperventilation.

It's one approving nod from my Head of House and then we're off. A lopsided duo—one useful, kind, and capable of locomotion; the other stumbling and half-blinded by panic. Al rattles off the pass-rhythm-of-the-week from memory and lowers me into the tunnel with a practiced hand.

The other Hufflepuffs should all still be asleep, but we're known to be early risers. We pass up the inviting sofas and Albus half-carries me to my empty dormitory. The other seventh years will be up in the Great Hall for at least another half hour longer; a small mercy. My bedroom is such a familiar comfort, with its many potted plants sat on tables or hanging from the low ceiling. Lush vines wind across the rounded walls. I've yet to really accept that we'll be leaving soon.

"Top drawer of your trunk?" Al asks, setting me down on the patchwork bedspread.

"Yeah," I mumble but he's already rummaging, taking care not to disrupt the order within.

"Here." He raises the phial to my lips and I feel calmer already. Just knowing that I have the potion takes the edge off. It also helps that I'm back in my room, and that Al is with me.

"It's funny," he says, sitting down. His fingers twirl loose threads in the quilt. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it, so you can change the subject. Just…" His eyes are so green. "What your dad said. About you and I not having 'a buffer' or whatever."

I can feel the ghost of a laugh rising on my lips. Al holds my gaze.

"It just made me think about…" There's a fissure in his ever-calm exterior. A mirth, reaching out for mine, growing. His smile is almost coy, but in an infinitely genuine way. "What if he knew, you know? Talk about 'unbuffered contact.'"

The laughter boils up from my chest and I'm still half hysterical, half sedated. It shudders through me faster than anything. Within seconds I'm laughing just because I'm laughing. Full body, spasmodic, positive-feedback-loop kind of laughter. My forehead presses against the bedpost and my shoes are on the sheets and I couldn't care less. It's infectious, and soon Al is doubled over as well.

"You ok?" he giggles, running a hand through my hair.

"Enough," I say, taking a handful of his uniform front.

Only his lips on mine could calm that beast of anxious, uproarious laughter. Our mouths stay smiling as we kiss. For a shining moment, I feel happy that such improbable and unfortunate circumstances have led us here. Alone, at dawn, together, with a good excuse and half hour of assured privacy to boot.

It almost feels worth it, all of it worth it, just for this.

* * *

The rising October sun casts long shadows as we clamber off the carriages at Hogsmeade Station. Excitement electrifies the air as students cluster, clutching traveling cloaks tight and speaking in reverent whispers. I feel… Fine. I think. I've done what I can and it's happening, and there's nothing else I can do at this point. Sod what my father thinks. His last letter was a last ditch effort anyway, and now we're here.

Madley strolls by, checking names off a long scroll, and I feel one last vestige of guilt.

"Professor!" I catch up to her. "Don't you think, maybe, I really would be better off staying behind? Anxiety and all?" I do a daft sort of wiggle-dance when I say 'anxiety' and can't help but smile—all signs that I'm clearly doing fine just now.

"Well you seem to be doing fine just now," she says, then continues down the line of students.

She sounded innocent enough, but I can't help but turn over her words and tone in search of a double meaning. A wink. A nod. A nudge. Now I'm paranoid that she knows. Al and I spent longer in the basement than would be expressly necessary to administer the potion.

"It's OK," he says, but he's talking about the trip. "Maybe just try to think of it as a vacation?"

I can tell he regrets saying anything at all.

"Hardly." I crash down on my trunk and bury my face in my hands. "Beauxbatons'll be swimming with reporters when we get there. Do you know how hard it is to dodge reporters?"

"Yes." Al blinks at me. "Yes I do."

Right. Duh. I'm saved from my embarrassment by a vision of red curls bouncing up to greet us.

Rosie plops down to sit cross-legged on the grass beside us. "Still moping?"

"Yes," Al and I reply in unison.

With a groan she cuts a daisy stem between her fingernails. Then shreds the tiny flower to pieces. "Did you tell him to think of it as a vacation?"

"Yes," he and I chorus again.

"Well bollocks." She flops over and gazes up at me, letting her face squish against my shins. "Then I suggest you just get over it, mate. Nothing you can do now."

I smile despite myself. "Will you pinkie-promise to distract the press if it starts to get weird?"

"Pinkie promise," she agrees, voice muffled from how her face is squashed, and proffers her little finger.

We shake pinkies on it and I feel a silly sort of relief. She claims to have a whole scroll of wild stories to feed the press if ever Al and I start to get too much attention. And the thing about Rosie is, she's an absolute maniac who _straight up doesn't give a fuck._ (Her words, not mine.)

"You lot are good mates," I say, shaking my head at myself.

"The best." Al smiles.

"You're lucky to have us." Rosie gives my knee a pat.

"Attention, students." Headmistress McGonagall taps her wand to her throat and her magically amplified voice booms across the waiting seventh years. "As you all know, it is customary for the visiting delegation to arrive in a fashion both traditional for and representative of their region. As our mode of transport shall also act as our domicile while we are abroad, I hope each of you will show appropriate appreciation for the vehicle that the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts Board of Governors have arranged."

A fearsome screech erupts in the distance and I flinch. Other students stand to get a better look and casting curious glances at one another. A train is barreling down the tracks, largely obscured by thick plumes of steam, but I can tell it isn't the Hogwarts Express. It's faster, impossibly fast, and much too tall.

The steam clears as the violently orange engine jolts to a stop. Three towering decks rise above us and I can see chandeliers swaying treacherously inside each of the many windows. The crowd of seventh years begin to whisper, then fall silent as each set of doors bursts open with a bang. A short, portly man steps out from the front dressed in a matching tangerine uniform.

"All aboard the Continental Shuttle!"

Shouts of "in an orderly fashion!" ring out from the faculty but chaos has broken out. Trunks lay abandoned on the grass as students swarm the shuttle to claim bedrooms. Madley gives me an appreciative nod at my restraint as I claim my trunk before following Al and Rosie to the least busy of the cars.

Rosie is already swinging from a rail, face alight. "You have to see this."

Climbing aboard I stop, stunned, and Al crashes into me. Three massive chandeliers are still tinkling above from the train's jolting arrival, bouncing rainbow lights throughout the carriage. It's like a restaurant, with two rows of tables and upholstered chairs set against the windows. The wallpaper sports a fleur de lys pattern, all luxury and sophistication. While more classic than the Muggle trains I've spent six years passing at King's Cross, the decor is much more modern than the Hogwarts Express. Definitely more modern than Hogwarts Castle.

"It's like an old Muggle film," Rosie says, mouth agape as she turns on the spot. "One of those black and white ones."

With a grin, she tears up the spiral stairs to explore more. The giddiness is infectious, and I find myself smiling at Al as we follow her to the second level. Rolltop desks and bookshelves wait at one end while sofas and high-backed armchairs cluster around a fireplace at the other. It's like a common room of sorts.

"I could get used to this," Rose sighs down onto a chaise lounge. "It's prettier than Hogwarts, even. Bit less gloomy and gothic, you know?"

"Yeah." Al nods, smiling.

"Reckon dorms are upstairs?" I say, eyeing another twist of spiral steps leading up.

"Right you are," a voice calls from above and inky robes soon spill around the bend. Professor Longbottom, Head of Gryffindor House, fixes Rosie with a look as he descends. "But I must tell you that while we won't be segregating by House on the train, we do have separate carriages for witches and wizards. I'm sorry, Miss Weasley. You can visit your cousin and your friend in the dining and common spaces, but you won't be allowed upstairs. The girls' car is two down."

Rosie crosses her arms and pouts but I'm distracted by the somersault in my chest.

"You won't be segregating by House?" I ask, and Al's elbow jabs into my ribs.

"Indeed." Longbottom's eyes narrow, considering us. I'd forgotten how close the Herbology professor is with the Potters.

"Wicked… Mate!" I raise my hand for a High Five, trying to salvage the situation. Al only blinks at me.

"Oh right!" He catches on after too long a pause, and there's a crack as our palms meet. "We can hang out now. As mates. Obviously."

Longbottom's silence feels intentional as he leads Rosie away. Al and I trade grins before racing up the stairwell.

A narrow corridor stretches the length of the topmost deck, beset with numbered doors. I feel giddy as I turn a knob at random. Silk curtains gather beside the tall windows, streaming down in delicate folds, and two twin beds wait on either side of the room.

"I have an idea," Al says, lunging toward a bed. Its feet groan against the floor as he heaves, shoving them together.

"Use your wand," I quip, but he just gives me a look.

Pushed side by side, the two twins roughly amount to a king size. Al bounces onto the velvet covers but I feel rooted to the spot.

"We should probably get our trunks," I say, but I can't stop grinning like a fool.

"We probably should." He shrugs, but doesn't move to get up.

* * *

"How do they expect us to eat like this?" Rose shouts over the din, gripping the ends of our table while plates shudder across the silk tablecloth.

The sun is high in the sky as the Continental Shuttle tears across the countryside at breakneck speed. It's only just lunch, but we've already breezed past London.

"Well we won't be traveling every day," Al reminds her, catching a soup tureen as it threatens to skitter off the table. "The train will be parked the rest of the time so we'll only have to do this again when we come back."

"I thought we were coming back by portkey?" I say, trying to sound casual, but I know perfectly well that students returning early won't be taking the train home.

"Right." Al nods. "Lucky we'll only have to do this once."

"Yeah." Rosie sulks. "Lucky us."

Ambivalent worry roils in my gut. Today has been fun. Too fun. If things keep going as they are, Al and Rosie won't want to come back after the weekend. My train of thought leaves me feeling guilty and I hate myself for wishing a bad time on the two people I care about most.

Out the windows, I see stark chalk cliffs cleaving a coastline. Darkness swallows before I have a chance to get a better look. The roar softens to a rumble and the rocking of the carriage mellows. We're underneath the Channel now, and France is waiting on the other side.

After lunch, we retire up to the Common Carriage and socialize awkwardly. It's obvious that ours is the Reject Car. Hamish Warren mopes in a far corner while we avoid Bodie Summerbee's eager attempts to rope us into a game of exploding snap. Most of the other blokes have holed themselves up in their dorms.

The French countryside blurs beyond the windows while Al and I team up on Rosie for several consecutive games of wizard chess. Even with both of us strategizing together, we've yet to take her down. Hell, we've yet to make ten solid moves before getting trounced.

"Are we going west?" Rosie asks, squinting at the last rays of sun sinking behind the horizon. "I thought Beauxbatons was by Cannes."

"Nah." Al moves our knight forward. "Aunt Fleur told me they're way out by the Biscay coast."

Rosie takes our knight without even looking down, snapping her own bishop into place. "Check."

I groan.

"Check _mate_ ," her bishop corrects.

Al groans. "We're twenty-three nil now."

"There it is!" Rosie cries, jumping up from her seat. "Look!"

Joining the others at the window I peer out into the jagged Pyrenees. Finally, I see it, glowing white in the twilight. The castle sits above an inlet from the bay, but 'castle' doesn't seem like quite the right word. It's no jumble of heavy stone towers and battlements like Hogwarts. Grand and symmetrical against a ragged countryside, Beauxbatons is a _palace._

The Continental Shuttle cuts between sharp-peaked mountains as we speed closer to the host school. The rest of our fellow passengers trickle down from the dormitory carriage to get a better look. Crowding the windows we watch in hushed silence, swaying with the motion of the train.

"It's beautiful," Rosie sighs, breath fogging the glass.

I privately agree. Al doesn't say anything at all. Details sharpen as we draw near and I can make out sprawling gardens and glittering fountains. Everything appears delicate and ordered. I can't help but imagine that Hogwarts and its grounds would look positively wild in comparison.

Chatter swells as the Continental Shuttle slows. My anxiety mounts. It's all coming to pass. I see silhouettes swarm the tracks as we wheeze to a stop. Lights flicker below as cameras flash. _Reporters._ The press circus has already begun.

"Attention students." Professor Madley's magically broadcasted voice echoes in the carriage. "We will be disembarking in just a few minutes. Remember to keep ordered queues like we practiced back at home."

Gasps ripple through the group around me and I turn again to the window. The once-still water of the inlet churns, twisting into a whirlpool. A mast thrusts up. Even behind the cool glass of the window, I can hear the violent rushing as water cascades down the ship's sides.

"That'll be Durmstrang," someone says.

 _Well duh_ , I think. _Who else would it be?_

"Alright," Madley's voice crackles in the carriage once more. "Here we go."

I'm caught in the tide of students, a cacophony of footsteps battering an uneven rhythm against the stairs. Al's hand finds mine but I see the front doors opening and pull away. Bursts of light explode as soon as he's in view.

"Albus! Hey Albus!" the reporters call. "Can you confirm that you'll be putting your name forward?"

Madley races up through the dark from the faculty carriage, throwing out a protective arm so Al and Rosie can pass. Another blaze of white blinds me as I stumble onto wet grass.

"Malfoy," the photographer jeers. "Planning to win back your reputation by competing?"

Purple smoke from cameras thickens the air and the shouted questions become incoherent noise. My burnt retinas sting from every fresh click and flash. The press have given up on the heroes; now they're closing in on the villain.

"Hey!" I hear Rosie shout. "I've just eloped! With a _vampire!_ "

Darkness falls as the journalists abandon me for their new prey. I blink, disorientated, and scramble up from the ground while they badger Rosie with questions and demand statements. Al just grins. Together we disappear into the anonymous crowd of black robes.


	4. Above the Fold

**CHAPTER** **FOUR**  
 _Scorpius tries to disappear._

* * *

 _GOLDEN DAUGHTER ELOPES WITH CREATURE OF THE NIGHT_ , the _Prophet_ headline blares. Front page, above the fold. Rosie's shoulders shake, face flushing with silent laughter.

 _The surprising confession came last night during Hogwarts' arrival at Triwizard Host, Beauxbatons Academy. Rose Granger-Weasley admitted to wedding a vampire over the summer holidays, leading some to wonder whether the relationship began before she came of age. While the couple have an age gap of over one hundred years, Granger-Weasley explains that 'he still looks seventeen, so it isn't creepy'..._

"Bloody hell," I say, scanning the rest of the absurd article. "I can't believe they bought that story."

"See." Al nudges my shoulder. "The press always bothers her the most because she's a girl. Ro could have said she switched shampoo brands and they'd put it on the front page."

Near the end of the article, crammed between discussion of the tournament judges and speculation about upcoming weather conditions, sits a curt summary of my existence. _Also in attendance is Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, son of businessman and former Riddle sympathizer, Draco Malfoy…_ The word choice and order is relieving. 'Businessman' beat 'Death Eater' in their epithet and they even went so far as to use the euphemism 'Riddle sympathizer.' All in all, a success.

All around us students laugh and mingle in half a dozen different languages. Throaty French and bouncy Norwegian dominate but I hear snatches of German, Russian, and Spanish as well. Breakfast at Beauxbatons is served in a glittering solarium overlooking the gardens. A warm, fragrant breeze flutters through the open doors. A bowl of buttery croissants sits at the center of each cafe table.

Unlike Hogwarts, our host school offers multiple different meal halls and we've heard that students spend the summer months dining out on the garden patios. Last night's feast took place in the most formal space of all. The massive ballroom had high, arching ceilings muraled with delicate flowers and picturesque maidens in flowing robes. Anything here that can be decorated with paintings is. The overall effect is stunning, not least because the paintings move.

I'm relieved that the Goblet of Fire has been stationed in that elegant room leaving me to breakfast in peace without its blue-white flames flickering in the corner of my eye. At least the pomp and circumstance around the tournament is keeping the press well fed but I can't help but feel bad for Rosie. Flipping a few pages in my newspaper I see an article devoted to rumours that TriWizard judge, Viktor Krum might be her biological father. Because the former Quidditch star is obviously such a ginger. One need only glance at Ronald Weasley to feel full confidence in Rosie's paternity.

"Alboos!" A voice calls out and I see a Beauxbatons professor flouncing towards us. "Rosie!"

The woman is a vision of shining white robes and silvery-blonde hair and I find it difficult to determine her age. She has the wise eyes and self-possession of an older woman but the immaculate complexion of someone in their early twenties. After a moment's thought I remember that Al and Rosie have veela relatives.

"Aunt Gabbie." Al smiles, rising from his chair. "Sorry—Professor Beaulieu."

"'Aunt Gabbie' is _bien_ , Alboos," she says, hugging her niece and nephew in turn. "Tell me you are to put your names in ze cup?"

"Nah, sorry." Al gives a sheepish shrug. "Don't fancy all that attention. James is furious that he's graduated, though. He'd have done it in a heartbeat."

"Ah, James. 'Ow eez 'e?"

Al and Rosie chat with their stunning aunt and I try to become invisible, sipping my coffee so eagerly that it trails down the future-frown lines of my chin.

"But you both will be staying at Beauxbatons to watch ze tournament, _non_?" she asks, laying a hand on each of their shoulders. An awkward glance passes between the cousins.

"We'll see." Rosie shrugs noncommittally.

"Got N.E.W.T.s coming, you know…" Al mutters.

"Well I 'ope you are finding a reason to stay." Professor Beaulieu beams. "I never am getting to see ze both of you. _Pardonne moi_." She frowns, noticing me for the first time. "I 'ave not made your acquaintance? You are the friend of Alboos and Rosie?"

"Yes, sorry!" I jump to my feet and extend my hand. "Scor."

"Scor?" She looks confused, struggling to pronounce my name.

"That's my name. Scor."

"I see," she says. "Enchantée, Scor. Welcome to Beauxbatons. You will be having many beautiful times here this year."

Two sets of eyes descend on me as the woman takes her leave. Al takes my hand under the table. "You know we're still coming back with you tomorrow."

Still coming back _with you_. I'm not an idiot; they would be staying if not for me. The press will soon be distracted by their real targets, the champions, leaving Al and Rosie the space to keep a low profile. Maybe I could too, if I had the chance. But Father knows I have the option of coming home once the champions are chosen, so I don't have the option to stay.

"You can still change your mind, you know," I say, gaze fixed on the ornate porcelain plates. "I'll understand if you want to stick around."

"No!" Rosie cries. "Don't be dim, of course we're going back to Hogwarts. I don't even fancy it here, really."

Utter. Bullshit. Beauxbatons might be the most beautiful place I've ever seen. Even in my haste to leave I can't help but wonder what the grounds will look like when the snow falls or imagine the gardens bursting to life in the spring. Last night at dinner, a choir of _wood nymphs_ serenaded us. Everything about this place is almost absurdly lovely.

"We're going back." Al's green eyes hold mine. "Tomorrow we're going back, and it'll be a bloody _amazing_ year at Hogwarts."

He spent most of last night after the feast outlining all of the advantages available when we return: _smaller student to teacher ratio, more individualized attention in lessons, empty dormitories, automatic prefect privileges…_ I fell asleep listening to him list things off. Each true, and each impossibly boring in comparison to what would be going on at Beauxbatons.

* * *

After breakfast we hike down to the seashore. Kicking off our boots and lifting the hems of our robes we let the tide rush around our ankles. After the chill of the Scottish highlands, southern France feels positively tropical.

"But what if?" Rosie asks, head lolling on her shoulder as she gazes out across the glittering bay.

"What if what?" I say.

"What if it weren't for Draco and all? Him forbidding you. Would you have put your name in the goblet?"

I run my hand through my hair, taken off guard by the question. "I… I dunno."

"So you might have?" She turns to face me. "If not for Draco?"

The question is too theoretical. Too impossible to imagine. "I mean, but… But even if he hadn't told me not to, I still wouldn't. I mean, I'm still a Malfoy."

"You're a different man than your father," Al says.

I shake my head. "That doesn't matter."

At best, I'm a footnote. _The Malfoy Boy._ Quiet, unobtrusive, and unworthy of discussion. In his youth, my Father was an attention junkie. I differentiate myself by sticking to the sidelines. Anything else, and I might as well be him at his worst. I've never spent more than five terrified seconds on a broom if only because he'd been an eager Quidditch player at school. To this day I'm not sure I could tell a quaffle from a bludger.

The wind picks up, sending Rosie's hair into a flurry, so we climb back up the twisting path to the chateau. I can hear the reporters waiting past the crest even before I see them.

"Stay back," I say. "Give me a few minutes lead."

Al and Rosie nod and I continue ahead. Shouts of 'hey Malfoy!' ring out just as soon as I'm in view. I keep my head down and pace steady as the journalists rush me.

"I've got a source saying you put your name forward last night, is that true?"

"No."

"What's it like studying alongside Harry and Hermione's children? Does that ever get awkward?"

"No comment."

I keep my hand over my face the way my father taught me. It protects from the glare of camera flashes and makes the photos harder to print later. No photo, no story.

"Speaking of Albus, we've heard talk that the two of you are staying in the same carriage—"

"Hey!" Rosie's voice cuts across the barrage of questions. I peek over my shoulder long enough to see her and Al appear around a fountain. The journalists turn on their heels to swarm her leaving me free to escape into the safety of the Continental Shuttle.

It's been less than twenty-four hours and Rosie's already running low on stories to slip to the ravenous press. Tonight's headlines will proclaim her a harlot, a hex head, and a half-hinkypunk. By noon tomorrow there'll be nothing left to leak. Lucky I'll be long gone by then.

Rather than return to my own carriage I cut a course for the staff section at the back. Two things have become eminently clear: 1) Al and Rosie are fantastic friends, and 2) I'm not worth it. It might be the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me, their offering to leave Beauxbatons early and miss the tournament. But what sort of friend would I be if I let them? If I rob them of this experience all because of my paranoid father and his obsession with being forgotten?

My knuckles rap against Madley's office door. It creaks open before I have the chance to lose my nerve.

"Is everything alright, Scorpius?" Her pale eyebrows raise high as she leads me to a chair.

"You've arranged my portkey home, yeah? For after the champions have been announced?"

"Yes, of course." She settles in behind her desk. "A portkey for three, set to depart tomorrow morning."

"Not exactly," I gulp, closing my eyes for the space of a breath. "It's just going to be one now. Al and Rosie are staying. Just… Just a portkey for me."

"Oh," she says, voice soft with sadness. "Oh, Scorpius I'm sorry—"

"It's ok." I pull away from her comforting hand. "But do you think maybe I could leave a little earlier? I know I have to stay to see the champions and all, but maybe right after they've been announced? It might be best, you know, to slip out when everyone's distracted. The press and all…"

"Of course." Madley nods, happy to finally be able to oblige. "I'm so sorry, I know how hard this has all been for you…"

"Yeah," I say, rising up from my seat. "Well."

And so it is.

And so Al and Rosie will stay behind, with their aunt and their other friends that they never get to hang out with when I'm around. They'll stay at Beauxbatons and watch the first TriWizard Tournament in thirty years, and they'll have the time of their lives. This time abroad will be an adventure. The source of a thousand fantastic stories they'll tell for years to come. And so what if Al falls in love with some beautiful Beauxbatons boy or dashing Durmstrang bloke? I never deserved him to begin with, and it won't be long before he moves on and forgets about me. After all, it was always my job to disappear.

* * *

The largest ballroom at Beauxbatons is electric with anticipation, a sea of periwinkle robes intermingling with inky black and oxblood. Even in the brightness of the pastel hall I can see the flickering light from the Goblet of Fire dancing over the judges' faces. Speculation shivers across the students.

"It'll be Potter, obviously," someone murmurs from a nearby table.

"I dunno, his cousin is clever too, and her parents are nearly as famous…"

The TriWizard Tournament is about to begin in earnest and I try not to focus on the beauty all around me. It's Halloween but there are no carved pumpkins or clouds of live bats fluttering ahead, just bouquets of fluffy chrysanthemums. Not that Beauxbatons demands extra decorating. There's more detail in this one room than I could possibly take in over a single weekend. Even the china is too intricate to fully appreciate after one viewing. But this place is not for me, and this excitement is not mine. Any minute now I'll be spirited back to Hogwarts while everyone is looking the other way.

I'm keeping my head down. I'm keeping to myself. I'm keeping a _low_ fucking profile.

"Not long now," Al says, but I don't let him twist an arm around my back.

Photographers pace the edges of the ballroom, wielding cameras like weapons. Bile burns in my throat. The food on my plate sits untouched and I can't shake the notion that it's a Last Meal of sorts. Even the meals are better here. Fresher, and with a greater variety of herbs and flavours.

"Try the bouillabaisse," Al urges. "We won't have a chance for this stuff back at Hogwarts."

I try not to meet his gaze. Fearsome love rushes in a torrent that I'm not sure I can control. I'm supposed to be slipping away soon. Disappearing. But I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to go through with it.

Red sparks leap from the Goblet of Fire and silence falls.

Madame Maxime's footsteps echo on the marble floor as positions herself behind the cup. The ropes of opals on her neck catch the light. Flames burst up with something like a roar and the crowd gasps. One massive, glittering hand catches the scorched curl of parchment.

"Ze champion for Durmstrang Institute…" she reads.

Even Al is transfixed as the headmistress announces the name. I don't bother trying to place it. It's not as though I've spent the weekend making new friends, and I'll be leaving before the champions' identities matter anyway. A girl with white-blonde hair rises from a knot of red-robed Durmstrang students. Everyone watches as she takes slow, wavering steps up the length of the ballroom. I catch Professor Madley's eye.

Applause begins to swell, offering cover as I edge my chair back from the table. There comes another round of sparks, followed by a hush. I freeze, waiting it out, but keep Madley's gaze. She's standing not ten feet away, in the shadow of an arched exit, gripping the neck of a dusty bottle. My portkey.

Fire growls from the goblet and everyone is too distracted to notice me rising slowly from my seat. Another scrap of singed parchment flutters in the tense air.

"Ze champion for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," the throaty voice calls. "Eez Monsieur Scorpius Malfoy."


	5. Blood in the Water

**CHAPTER FIVE**  
 _Scorpius tries to remain calm._

* * *

No one moves. No one breathes. Every head has turned to face me. The silence swells inside the grand ballroom, tightening the atmosphere. I just blink at the towering woman stood behind the goblet, a scrap of singed parchment held between two massive fingers.

"Scorpius Malfoy," Madame Maxime says again. "Zat is you?"

"Sorry?" I say, and my timid voice echoes loud in the tense hall. I'm still hovering over my chair, caught halfway between sitting and escaping. Al stares up at me, mouth agape.

"Monsieur Malfoy," she repeats. "To ze front, _s'il vous plaît._ "

The first camera flash brightens the hall. Within seconds the room fills with the flares and clicks of a ravenous press corps. There's blood in the water now.

Rapid footsteps ring out across the marble floor and I see Headmistress McGonagall cutting a course towards me. She looks dignified even in her haste, if annoyed.

"Please, Mister Malfoy." She seizes my arm. "You're due with the other champion."

The Goblet of Fire sparks red for the last time, but no one is paying attention.

McGonagall ushers me down the aisle between tables and I spy Professor Madley still loitering in the archway. The dusty bottle waits on a spindly-legged end table. I try to catch her eye as I pass, pleading silently for her to save me. The bottle glows blue.

"M-my portkey," I stammer.

"You've been chosen as Hogwarts champion," McGonagall hisses. "You can't very well leave _now_."

She pushes me through a tapestry into an adjoining parlor and I see the Durmstrang champion and headmaster perched on brocaded chairs. The crackling fire in the hearth casts a rosy glow over their smiling faces.

"E'm Elinor," the champion says in a buoyant Nordic accent. "Nice to meet you."

I gargle rather than offer a coherent response, feet rooted to the spot. The tapestry flaps open again and someone crashes into me from behind.

" _Merde_ ," he spits, annoyed. The Beauxbatons champion is gorgeous in an aloof, terrifying sort of way. Neat, close-cropped hair fades down the sides of his head, emphasizing sharp cheekbones. One massive, bejeweled hand curves around his shoulder.

"Step aside, Malfoy," McGonagall whispers out the corner of her mouth. I scramble out of the way, embarrassed.

"Ze Hogwarts champion is reluctant now?" the host headmistress raises an eyebrow.

"I didn't enter!" I plead, swiveling my head between the authority figures in the room.

" _Mon dieu_ , not zis again," Maxime sighs, massaging the bridge of her nose. "You were beginning to stand even before I called your name. You must 'ave known you would be chosen!"

"My portkey…" I whimper, turning to McGonagall.

"I'm sorry, Mister Malfoy." She shakes her head. "But the Goblet of Fire represents a binding magical contract. If fraud is indeed the case, then I extend my sincerest apologies. But the fact of the matter remains that you are now obligated to compete in the Triwizard Tournament."

"I can't!" My panic rises as I run a hand through my hair. "My father—we can't have this much attention on us—"

"Listen to me, Mister Malfoy." McGonagall's voice is hard as her eyes blaze into mine. "More than fifty Hogwarts students put their names forward. Whether or not you entered yourself, the Goblet of Fire has chosen _you_ as the champion. This may not be the opportunity you want, but it is the opportunity you have been given."

Tense silence billows while McGonagall's eyes burn.

"You are a good man, Mister Malfoy. I trust people will see that, if only you give them the chance."

* * *

Madley and I cross the dark grounds in silence. A few yellow lights glow from the lower decks of the train, but most everyone is probably in bed by now.

The reporters had camped out beside the chamber where the champions got briefed. More still staked out the grounds. Even after Elinor of Durmstrang and Hervé of Beauxbatons took their leave, the reporters remained. They clamored at the doors, demanding statements and interviews, while I sat holed up with Madley and McGonagall beside the dying fire. After a few hours waiting, Madley read off a curt statement I'd penned with a shaking hand. It only took two hours after that before the last journalists finally gave up and left.

"For what it's worth." Madley breaks the silence. "I believe you didn't enter yourself."

"Thank you," I say.

For a moment, the only sound comes from our boots landing on the dewy grass.

"And it's not like this hasn't happened before." She shrugs. "I'm just surprised someone managed to do it again. The associated schools made sure to close that loophole when they revived the tournament."

The loophole. _That_ loophole. There'd been an entire document outlining the changes the TriWizard schools had made to keep another Potter situation from arising. Apparently, Beauxbatons underwent a change of name three hundred years ago, back when the palace was remodeled. Back in 1994, the goblet still recognized L'ècole de Magie, while also accepting the new title of L'académie de Magie. All Crouch Junior had to do was enter Harry Potter under the old name, ensuring he would be the only applicant in the category and therefore destined to be chosen.

But with loophole closed, how did my name come out of the cup?

There's a sliver of light under my bedroom door when I get upstairs, so I know Al is waiting up.

"Hey!" he cries, pushing off the covers. "What's going on?"

I take a seat at the edge of the bed, my back to him, and bury my face in my hands. "Why did you do it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean." My voice sounds muffled as I try to keep from crying.

If there's one person in the world who would know how to get past the goblet, it's Al. His dad probably knows something about it. Something that wasn't included in the explanatory document lest ambitious students tried to exploit the weakness. Maybe old Mr Potter let something slip.

"If you wanted to stay that badly," I sniff. "You could have just asked."

"What are you even talking about?" I can hear the subtle flush of frustration in his voice.

"Dammit, Al. If you really cared that much… I would have done anything! I would have told my father to sod off, if you really wanted me to!"

The bed bounces as he crashes down backwards. "That's bollocks and you know it. You never stand up to Draco."

"So… What?" I whip around. "Tricking the goblet into making me champion so we can stay is _better_ than telling my dad to shove it?"

"I didn't put your bloody name into that cup." One arm is folded behind his head and his voice sounds more annoyed than angry. His even temper is throwing me off, if only because I'm feeling so hysterical.

"God _dammit_ Al." I snap up and pace the narrow room, running my fingers through my hair. Al just lies on the bed, watching.

Tugging open my trunk, I rummage until I find a crushed pack of old cigarettes. Only one remains unbroken, if bent, and I stab it between my lips.

"Please don't smoke, Scor."

"Fuck off."

"Alright. Well," he groans as he climbs off the bed. "I'm sleeping downstairs if you're going to be belligerent."

I puff my fag, listening to Al's footsteps spiraling down the stairs. When they finally disappear, I feel sick and drop the cigarette into an empty glass. The ember hisses against the last few drops of water at the bottom as it goes out.

* * *

Al's side of the bed is still empty when I awake. Reaching out, I touch the cold sheets where he isn't. In the sober light of day, I regret everything.

" _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ ," I mutter, hammering the heels of my palms against my temples. The more I think about it, the more I see how ridiculous my suspicion was. Al never would have put my name in the goblet. Not least because that's not his style. He might be a Slytherin, but that only makes him subtler. That he's the most obvious choice of culprit means he's the least likely to have actually done it.

I think. Maybe.

Scrubbing my face with my hands I try to shake away the dizzying suspicions. _Al said he didn't do it, so he didn't do it._ End of. I dress in a hurry before stumbling downstairs to find him.

"Morning," Rosie calls as I descend to the dining carriage. "Or I should say, _afternoon_."

"Have you seen Al?" I glance down the length of the car.

She nods out the window but the curtains are drawn. "Gardens, I think."

"Thanks." I seize the doorknob.

"Wait you might not want to do that!"

A barrage of camera flashes explodes just as soon as I wrench open the door. I snap it closed again, releasing the handle as though it were red hot.

"Yeah," Rosie sighs. "They've been waiting out there all day."

Shit, shit, _shit._ I need to find Al to apologize but I'm trapped inside the train.

"What should I do?" I beg, hoping she'll have some mad hijinks up her sleeve.

"Er… Maybe…" She squints, crossing the over a table she peers between the curtains on the other side. "Yes! No reporters over here!"

No doors either. I look at her, then to the pointed lack of door.

"Climb out the window, you duffer!"

Right. It seems inelegant somehow to scramble up the brocaded chairs and I hate the idea of getting my shoes on the pristine tablecloth. Rosie groans as she helps me clear the table, setting the cutlery, china, and vases of flowers down in the next space over. Swinging one leg over the sill I slide my foot against the exterior of the train, searching for something to catch hold of. There's nothing.

"Merlin, Scor, it's not that far down." She rolls her eyes.

In a flash, her palms push against my shoulders and she gives me a shove. I land hard on the grass, only mildly winded. Looking up I see Rosie's mad face grinning from the window above. She raises one finger to her lips, shushing me, and I remember the crowd of rabid reporters waiting on the other side of the tracks.

I duck down behind a hedgerow until I'm out of their line of sight then cross under the lacey trellis into the gardens. A pair of Beauxbatons girls are sat on a bench, giggling and chatting in rapid French, but neither of them bother with me. With most of the flowers have closed up in preparation for winter the gardens are all but empty. I stroll for a quarter hour before I spy Al sat reading on the lip of a bubbling fountain.

"Hey," I say, slowing down as I approach him.

"Hey." He nods, but keeps his eyes focused on his book. "How'd you get around the paps?"

"Rosie pushed me out a window."

Al chuckles once. "She would."

"I'm…" My feet shuffle pebbles and I plunge my hands into my pocket. "I'm really sorry about last night. I was just… freaked out."

Al marks his page before looking up. "I'm sort of miffed that your first instinct was to think I had something to do with it."

"Yeah, I know." I shrug, rubbing an eye. "It's just _this place_. And everything that's happening here. You'd have missed out on all of it."

"I wouldn't do something I know would hurt you just to study abroad."

Fair enough. I sigh and take a seat beside him, resting my forehead in one hand. "I really don't know why you bother with me."

"What do you mean by that?"

"I mean… just look around. You really would have given all this up to go back to Hogwarts with me?"

Water splashes in the fountain and Al gives me a look. "This routine is getting old, Scorpius. I'm tired of telling you: _yes_."

His calm frustration hurts more than anger and I hate the feeling of him closing up against me. Something desperate pulls at my chest. The emotional space left vacant by his composure demands to be filled.

"I don't understand you." I swoop up to stand and throw my arms in the air. "Why do you even _bother_ with me? I don't understand what you even _like_ about me."

Green eyes close for a steadying breath, which I hate. Annoyed Albus is the worst kind of Albus.

"Don't do this," he says.

"Why not?" I shoot back.

"Because it's bollocks, ok?" Now he's starting to show some feeling, but that just makes me feel like a tosser. "Listen, Scor, my parents like you. They think you try way too hard, but they like you. _You're_ the one who's rebelling against your dad by even going out with me, so _I_ should be the one questioning _your_ motives."

My face pinches, flushing hot. I feel my chest rapidly rise and fall. "Al…" I say, but speaking makes the tears come too fast and I'm mopping my eyes.

"Dammit, Scor." His voice is soft as he folds his arms around me, pressing his head into the crook of my neck. "I'm sorry, what you're going through right now is mental. I should know that."

"I love you," I sniff, squeezing him tight.

"I love you too," he says, and we sway from side to side for a long time.

* * *

I met him on the Hogwarts Express.

That first summer before I went off to school was the worst to date. The rules were still new then, and Father didn't take any chances that I might not understand what was at stake.

 _Keep your head down. Keep to yourself. Keep a low profile._

 _And no matter what you do—no matter what happens—stay away from Harry Potter's children._

I remember standing on the platform with my parents, only the second time I'd ever seen them together. It had felt strange sharing the limousine with my mother as we drove to King's Cross together. Astoria was aggravated and fidgety. She rolled her head on her neck, blew air out between her lips, and shook her head as she mumbled to herself. More than once, she changed her mind and demanded that we take her back to Greengrass Manor.

Just as we'd finally gotten into London, Astoria started tugging at her clothes. Her arms caught in the sleeves of her robes as she tried to pull them off. I looked away while Father tried to calm her. After downing a phial of Draught of Peace she was able to stand still and keep her clothes on. She stood beside me on the platform, eyes unfocused, and smoothed the back of my robes with a gentle hand.

Father's jaw stayed tense all that morning. I remember him giving me a curt nod when he pointed out which children I was to stay away from.

"No—don't look just now. Over there." He jerked his head to the side. "Did you see them?"

I nodded that I had and he gave me an anxious pat on the shoulder.

Once aboard the Hogwarts Express, my cousin Phoebe secured me an empty compartment before going off to join her third year mates. The train had already started rolling down the tracks by the time the door creaked open.

"Hi." The voice had the edge of an exhausted groan to it. "Sorry, can I sit in here? It's just that I have this brother, and he's a second year, and he's driving me mental."

* * *

Every passing owl makes my stomach clench. I'd been so sure Father would write first thing, but I haven't heard a word. All of his greatest fears have come to pass, so why hasn't he owled?

I can't help but wonder if this is him disowning me. Might his lack of contact mean 'we're through?'

As anxious as his silence makes me, I'm infinitely more anxious about what he'll say when he finally speaks. His lack of comment inspires in me a precarious sort of calm.

We start taking lessons at Beauxbatons on Monday and I struggle to get between classes with the horde of reporters camped in the area. Right now, they're running the angle that I lied about putting my name in the goblet. My motive? To draw some desperate parallel with Harry Potter's famous story—trying to emulate him, garner sympathy, win back the family name. Et cetera, et cetera.

Technically, the press aren't allowed inside the chateau unless it's an official tournament event or ceremony. Unfortunately, Beauxbatons has a lot of windows. A minor commotion breaks out in my first ever History and Ethics of Magic lecture when the professor notices a photographer hovering outside. The classroom is on the ninth floor.

After that, the administration bans reporters from using broomsticks between official events as well.

Filing into my Charms lecture after lunch I see the Durmstrang champion trying to catch my eye.

"Hello," she says. "You are Scorpioos, yes?"

"Yes. Scor, for short." I offer my hand. "Elinor, right?"

"Call me Lin." She smiles. "For _short_."

I like her.

"You are having a lot of journalists around you, yes?"

"Yeah," I try to laugh, but it doesn't work out and I sound like I'm being strangled instead.

"We are not so much, Hervé and I." She leans closer and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I thinking Hervé is jealous."

"Well, he shouldn't be," I say.

The schools chose to mix the visiting and host students together, so neither Al nor Rosie share Charms with me. Taking a seat near the back of the class I'm pleased when Lin chooses the seat adjacent. The Durmstrang Champion has a warm, easy-to-talk-to way about her. It helps that she doesn't seem to be appraising me when we talk. Her white-blonde hair almost reminds me of my father, but her cheeks glow pink in a way that makes her seem more alive. I can't help but root for her to win the Tournament.

I think I might still be in shock. Or at least, denial.

Outside of the morning's athletic photographer, my first day as a Beauxbatons student passes without incident. Lin and I head down to supper together after classes end, getting lost several times on the way, and I'm relieved that we're dining in one of the more casual halls this evening. Well, casual by Beauxbatons standards. There's a bit less by way of intricate murals in favor of striped silk wallpaper, but there's no want for swirling cornices and gold leaf.

Glancing down the tables I'm surprised that I don't see Al among the crowd of students. The relatively small proportion of black robes should make him spot, but I don't see him. Rosie's sat in a secluded corner, annexed by a handful of adoring blokes in powder blue.

"Hey," I say, jogging up to her. "You seen Al?"

She just shrugs and gives me a Do Not Salt My Game sort of look. Feeling a little lost and abandoned I'm relieved to see Lin beckoning me to join her with her Durmstrang mates. I shake everyone's hands in turn before taking my seat.

"Can I ask you personal question?" Lin says, forking a helping of marinated fish onto her plate. "About something in newspaper?"

"Sure," I answer too quickly and choke on my water.

"I read your father was supporting of Tom Riddle."

"Yeah." My stomach clenches and I try not to catch the eyes of the others at the table. "He was a teenager and got kind of dragged into it, which isn't a defense or anything. I'm not like that at all, though. I wasn't even born yet."

"I understand." She nods. "I asking because same with my great-grandfather. He was supporting of Grindelwald, so I understand how can be sometimes. Guilty, kind of. But for things I never was doing."

A few others at the table nod and I'm too surprised to say anything.

"The var in Europe vas bigger than either in England," a boy who introduced himself as Pavel explains. "Many more people 'dragged in,' as you say."

"I have both sides," another girl says, raising her hand. "My grandmother's family died in Nurmengard, but my great-grandfather was guard."

"Wow." It's all I can think to say.

"I think is unfair to say anyone is guilty for what ancestors do." Lin shrugs. "And like you say, you are not holding onto old ideas. It is our job to learn from past and remember, I think."

My jaw feels tight as I nod. Then, something clicks. I checked every headline this morning but most were more positive than I would have expected. Sympathetic even, if dead wrong. But the _Evening Prophet_ got delivered an hour ago, and Al is nowhere to be found.

"Excuse me." I scrape my chair back from the table.

Racing across the lawns towards the train, I ignore the shouted questions from the throng of reporters trailing behind. I tear through the door, out of breath, and see Al sat at a table. He's made himself a makeshift supper from the snacks on hand in the dining car. Putting down his cutlery with a clatter he gives me a withering glare.

"I don't want to talk to you."

"What happened?" I ask, still panting, but Al just heads for the stairs. I race after him and nearly slip on the spiral steps. "What did they write?"

"I _really_ don't want to see you right now." He's climbing up the second flight to the dorm deck. I try to catch his arm but he wrenches it away. I falter. Never before have I seen him so angry.

He slams our door in my face and I hear it lock with a click.

"Al!" I hammer my fist against the wood. "Please, Al. Please tell me what they wrote."

When the door swings open, his face is a calm mask over a livid interior. "Why didn't you just _tell_ me? You know I would have supported you if I knew that's what you wanted to do."

"What are you—"

"And then that big production you put on, accusing _me_ of putting your name in the goblet."

My chest clenches as I start to panic, pleading. "What are you talking about?"

"I feel like I don't even know who you are anymore."

"Please, Al." Tears sting my eyes as I reach for his arm. "Please, I don't know what you're talking about."

Once again he jerks himself free of my grip. "This," he says, thrusting a fluttering copy of the _Evening Prophet_ into my chest. "I'm talking about this."

My hands shake as I turn the newspaper over. A wide, full colour photograph takes up most of the front page. A photograph of me, dropping a scrap of parchment into the Goblet of Fire.


	6. Crisis Mode

**CHAPTER SIX  
** _Scorpius tries to be less self-absorbed._

* * *

"I don't know what to say, Scorpius." Professor Madley hands me another cup of tea laced with anti-anxiety potion. "If you say the photo isn't of you, I believe you."

Dawn breaks outside the infirmary car windows; I've been in Crisis Mode all night.

"What if it is?" I moan. My face feels blotchy and my lips are slick and sensitive from crying. "Could I have blacked out, maybe? Or maybe I was sleepwalking?"

"It's not impossible." She takes a seat and nods for me to sip my tea. "But I know that's not a side effect of _this_ potion. If you're taking anything else…"

"I'm not."

"Listen, I won't judge you if you've been experimenting. But as I'm prescribing the sedative, I need you to be honest about anything else you might be on."

"Cigarettes," I sniff. "Not much, though."

"Tobacco wouldn't cause an adverse reaction." She shakes her head. "And you definitely haven't done any other mind altering spells? Maybe a muggle drug? What colour is the tobacco in your cigarettes?"

"It's not green, if that's what you're asking." I roll my eyes. "I know what weed is, Professor, I'm not an idiot."

"Well," she takes a deep breath. "There is one other possibility."

I feel my muscles clench with fear, willing her not to say it. _It's starting._ I have what my mother has.

"Polyjuice Potion," Madley says instead. "But if that _was_ the case, it's too late to know for sure. Even if we could test everyone who was here that night, polyjuice flushes from the system very rapidly."

"Great," I say, but I'm honestly relieved. If it was polyjuice then at least it wasn't my fault. Ever since I saw the photo, I can't help but wonder if some secret part of me wanted this—was asking for it. Like my unconscious mind went and fulfilled a desire my conscious mind had long suppressed. But if that was the case, what was I hoping to gain?

The distant bay glitters gold in the sunrise and the pair of us fall silent for a spell.

"I can owl your professors if you like," she finally adds. "Tell them you aren't feeling well."

"No." I rub my swollen eyes. "I'll be alright. Thanks though."

Madley gives me a gentle smile as I heave myself off the infirmary bed.

"Take care of yourself, Scorpius."

"Yeah." I shrug, making for the door. "I'll try."

Al is already gone by the time I return to our room. The two beds are separated again, his neatly made, and I soon discover that his belongings are missing from the wardrobe. Glancing at the mirror I realize I look a wreck. Deep purple bags hang under bloodshot eyes and the pores across my nose gape.

I spend a long time under the scalding tap in the shower trying to burn off the previous night, and when I finally get out, all I want to do is sleep.

"Scor?" Rosie's voice sounds timid as she gently knocks on the door.

"Come in," I sigh, ruffling a towel over my hair.

As she steps into the room I notice that she seems smaller than normal. She bites her lip and holds her shoulders high and I try to swallow the lump hardening in my throat.

"So I guess you heard," I say.

"Oh." Her voice sounds soft and sad and she rushes to my side, laying a cool cheek against my shower-flushed shoulder. "Oh Scor, I'm so sorry."

"So you still believe me?"

"Yes, of course!" She nods and her eyes look more serious than I ever see them. "And Al will see it too. Soon. I promise."

* * *

At breakfast Rosie stirs her tea moodily while I pick at a croissant. Neither of us seem very keen on talking. Al doesn't show up at all, and I find myself swiveling to check the archway every time I hear footsteps.

A pair of Beauxbatons girls begin whispering from the next table over.

"Ignore them," Rosie mutters, matching their furtive glances with an icy glare.

The _Daily Prophet_ 's run another story on me and the sight of my own face grimacing from the front page of so many newspapers makes me feel sick. While the press had already been convinced that I put my name in the goblet—using the idea to weave a tragic tale of a Lost Young Soul Looking for Redemption in All the Wrong Places— _proving_ that I entered myself has turned me into some sort of villain. Or at least, an attention-starved narcissist from a dodgy family.

Last night, I'd been sure that the newly released photo would finally inspire an earth-shattering owl from my father, but none has yet arrived. That he still hasn't written makes me even more anxious. I'd think he died or something, but with the press watching our family so closely, I'm sure I would have heard.

Rosie gives me a firm hug before we head off to our morning lessons. Stealing through the sundrenched pastel corridors, I hear voices lower whenever I pass. A dozen different accents distort the sound of my own name.

 _Él sólo quiere llamar la atención..._

 _...So verzweifelt und erbärmlich..._

 _Pourquoi at-il pas dit la vérité?_

I slip into Potions and Alchemy and my stomach leaps; Al is sat at our usual table to the back. Green eyes catch mine for the space of a missed heartbeat. Then, he stands, gathers his things, and silently crosses the chamber to fill the empty space beside Hamish Warren.

Guilt rises in my throat like bile. I should have listened to Madley and taken the day off. What sort of idiot parades himself around after everything the papers have said? No wonder everyone thinks I'm just trying to get attention.

Al ignores me all through the lecture, not even sparing me a backwards glance. I'm listless as I scribble down the equations, but don't retain a word the _professeur_ says. Lack of sleep has left me feeling blurry. Over and over again, I catch myself staring at the back of Al's head. His familiar cowlicks makes my chest ache.

The old bell tower rings for the end of class and Al is spirits away before I've even finished screwing shut my ink.

I sleepwalk to my next lesson in a daze. Portraits of eighteenth century witches in fluffy pink robes frolic through the landscapes dotting the corridor, but I keep my eyes downcast. Then, two gleaming oxfords step in to view.

I look up to see Hervé staring down his nose at me.

"Very impressive." The Beauxbatons champion breaks into a derisive slow clap. "I must hand it to you, Monsieur Malfoy, you have the press— _comment dit-on_ —wrapped around your little finger."

His English is more polished than many of the other students, but it maintains a sing-song cadence. He's so beautiful it's hard to look directly at him.

I hate him.

"Did you know that I'm the first black champion in the history of the tournament?" he says, and I have no idea how to respond. "No? Why would you? It's not as if that's been in the newspapers. There's not even a photograph of my name coming out of the goblet. No, everyone was too busy looking at _you_."

My insides turn to lead while he lets the silence hang, daring me to answer.

"I'm—I'm sorry—that's… I…"

"So now you've had your fun, why not let the rest of us have a turn? Stop parading yourself around like a two-faced clown and let me get a good photo for grandmaman to hang over her mantle. Think of it as a consolation prize, now that I won't be featured in the history books."

Shame burns in my stomach as Hervé turns on his heel. I listen to his footsteps fade down the corridor. In all my angst about the press, I'd forgotten that the other champions actually _chose_ this. That they wanted, even hoped, for this to happen.

I probably should have realized that Hervé would be the first ever black TriWizard champion, but in my preoccupation, it never even crossed my mind.

 _No photo, no story_.

He's right to feel robbed of a major milestone. Whether or not it was my fault, it was definitely _because of me._

All at once, I realize how self absorbed I've been. Even hanging out with Lin, I never bothered to ask how she felt about becoming Durmstrang champion. She's listened to me day after day as I whinge about getting something other people prayed for. All this time, I haven't thought to look further than my own nose.

Maybe there _is_ something selfish in me—something narcissistic and self-involved. Maybe that something got out one night, running amok and vandalizing history in the process. No polyjuice, no fraud. Just _me_ ; a clown with two faces.

* * *

At lunch I spy Lin sat alone on the patio, hair glowing white in the November sun, and decide now is as good a time as any to stop being such a selfish arse. It's chilly outside but the Scandinavian doesn't seem to notice. I ask if I can join and she gives me a weak smile.

"I was wanting some air," she says, and I notice her voice sounds brittle.

"I know the feeling." I shrug. "By the way, I never asked you - why did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"

She just laughs and shakes her head. "I think, Scor, you are the only person not understanding why."

I turn her words over, trying to step outside of myself for the first time all term.

"Some try for the being celebrity, I think," she goes on. "And the prize is lots of gold as well. Many would be wanting that."

"But why did you? What made you want to enter?"

A coy sort of smile plays over her lips. Quiet, and conspiratorial. "I didn't think I was to be getting chosen," she whispers. "I just wanted to see."

"But, you're in now," I splutter. "Doesn't that scare you?"

"I don't know." She shrugs one shoulder. "I haven't really believing yet that I am champion for Durmstrang. But the goblet chose me, so I must be person to do it. Better chance than any of the others, so it says."

It's hard for me to imagine having so much faith in a mangy old cup.

"I'm just worrying now about this afternoon," she admits.

I begin to nod 'yeah,' before realizing I have no idea what she's referencing.

"We are doing the interviews today, remember? That was why you asking about reasons to enter, yes? Because now they thinking you entered yourself."

"Wait." My sleep-deprived brain struggles to catch up. "We're… doing interviews? Today?"

I begin to vaguely recall mention that the champions would participate in a press junket. But that announcement had come back before blue flames had spat out my name. Back when I thought I'd be returning to Hogwarts, a world away from Beauxbatons and the Tournament.

My chest tightens as Lin's pale eyes hold mine. Now I understand why Hervé sought me out; he wants the press conference to become a Malfoy Marathon almost as little as I do. Not much to build a friendship on, but that's one thing we have in common.

"Ah, Mister Malfoy," McGonagall calls and I start. "Miss Torstensson. You're both needed in the ballroom for the Weighing of the Wands."

Lin gives me an anxious look and I feel my heart rate quicken.

"Well come along then, you two, lunch will be served inside."

Journalists and photographers crowd a long buffet table, but Lin and I are soon whisked up by a chatty makeup artist and shoved into salon chairs. Hervé looks perfectly at ease as a witch powders his already immaculate skin.

"So what do you usually do?" The makeup artist swivels me around to face a mirror and begins fluffing my hair with her fingers. She doesn't wait for an answer, and sets upon styling before I've even found my voice.

To my right, Lin looks overwhelmed. Her own stylist dabs deep crimson onto her lips, and her once near-invisible eyebrows are penciled a shocking mahogany. Garish orange blush soon follows.

A wizard wearing angular black robes and very small spectacles glides back and forth between us, shouting directions and pointing out every blemish that needs better coverage.

I glance back to my own reflection as the stylist combs Sleakeazy into my hair. The sharp side part and waving fringe makes me look like a prat. To my horror, she proceeds swipe a wholly unconvincing shade of pink over my lips.

A quarter of an hour later, my stomach is grumbling and my face feels claustrophobic from makeup. Lin looks miserable and tentatively touches her coif of absurd ringlets as though they might electrocute her. One space over, Hervé looks more or less the same, if more luminous.

"Well, now that they're all camera ready." The severe looking wizard claps his hands together. "Let's start with group shots."

The three of us are soon steered in front of a backdrop of regal purple drapery. While the photographers seem keen to get me in the middle, Madame Maxime insists that the host champion is meant to take prominence. Her thunderous voice shuts down all opposition and I'm relieved to switch spots with Hervé. It isn't even very surprising when he takes that opportunity to jostle my shoulder.

After thirty hours without sleep, everything begins to take on the quality of a dream.

"Big smiles," the photographer commands.

I feel myself wince as the camera flashes.

* * *

"Scor, hey!"

Rosie's voice drags me out of deep, fitful sleep. The stars are out and a full moon sits just at the peak of the mountain above, as though balanced there. I shake my groggy head and feel a rush of embarrassment that I drooled in my sleep.

"I noticed you skived Transfig and I didn't see you at dinner," she says, unwrapping a sandwich from a powder blue napkin. "Nice makeup, by the way."

I sit up and check the mirror—black mascara rings my eyes and my hair is now vertical. My skin feels choked after sleeping in foundation and powder.

"Ugh, I'm gonna get so many blackheads," I moan, kicking off the blankets to scrub my face under the tap. "We had this bloody ridiculous press conference and I just… I dunno, I needed to pass out after."

"Figured."

Having missed lunch as well as dinner, I return to the bed and take greedy bites of the sandwich. The more I wake up, the more the memories of that afternoon sting.

"So, how _did_ the press circus go, anyway?"

The question feels like a splash of cold water. Shame, dread, and helplessness arrange themselves into a thousand different constellations.

"Bollocks," I say around a full mouth, trying to sound casual. "We had to do these individual portraits, and they took about a thousand years trying to get me to smile. Then some important wandsmith looked at all our wands and talked a load of rubbish, and _then_ we all had to stand in front of all these journalists while they yelled questions at us."

"And I'm guessing by 'us' you really mean 'you.'"

I cringe because she's right. That spectre of guilt for stealing Hervé's spotlight returns. While I'm pretty sure I hate him, I also know he has every reason to hate me back. The reporters spent the better part of an hour badgering me while the other champions were all but forgotten.

"It went pretty much the way you'd expect." I shrug. "All 'why did you lie about putting your name in the cup' this, and 'are you trying to restore your family's reputation' that."

Rosie gives my knee a sympathetic pat, but I try not to take it as encouragement to keep talking. I know everyone must be tired of my self-pity by now. Al was certainly growing weary of it, before—

The thought of my boyfriend (estranged boyfriend? ex boyfriend?) feels like a stab wound. It's been less than two days, and I miss him more than I've ever missed anything aside from my aunt Daphne.

All of a sudden, I'm crying. It comes on all at once like a sneeze. Rosie throws an arm around my quaking shoulders and I try to mop my eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm always like this… Dammit!"

"Hey now." She tightens her grip. "It's okay."

It feels like every time I think my life is as ruined as it could ever get, the universe finds new and interesting ways to tweeze it apart.

"Listen, you've slept for like…" She checks her watch. "Fifteen hours now. Fancy a walk before the sun comes up? The paps have all been fed so they've slithered back to the abyss from whence they came for the night."

Outside, the air is crisp and clean, like a balm against my swollen eyes. Beauxbatons' reflection ripples on the surface of the inlet as Rosie and I stroll down its manicured bank. I half expect her to suggest we do something mad like go skinny dipping but she has her Serious Face on, which is rare. And a relief.

"Maybe it's time for another rumour about me?" she says. "I still have Unplanned Teen Pregnancy in the bank. That should hold us for at least a few months. Longer, if I can fake a convincing enough belly."

"Let's save that one," I laugh.

Further down the water's edge the narrow garden separating the lawn from the shore gives way to a bank of smooth pebbles. We stop and lay down our cloaks so Rosie can skip stones. I watch, hypnotized by her rocks skittering across the inky water. The inlet has its own gentle tide, lapping the bank in an irregular rhythm. Or maybe the rhythm is just so long I've yet to notice it repeating.

"Can I ask you a question?" She looks alarmingly serious. "It's just that you never talk about your mum. Like, I've literally never heard you talk about her."

"That's not a question," I say with the edge of a protective smile and start pulling up blades of grass.

"Alright then: what's the deal with your mum?"

"Baaaaasically." I press one palm against my eye, trying to figure out how to best sort the information. "It was kind of an arranged marriage thing."

"Blimey," she breathes.

"Yeah. Blah blah blah Death Eater stuff; my dad had been pre-engaged to this other witch. Something Parkinson, I think. Dahlia Zabini's mum. Anyway," I blow out a long breath. "So my dad needed the reputation boost, and the Greengrasses never went full-on Team Riddle during the war. And Astoria—my mother—didn't have any other suitors. She'd already had some problems back in school, even before the war, but she was still pretty okay then. She was twenty-two, I think, when she and my dad got married. But then, I dunno. I guess it's the sort of thing that doesn't really manifest until you get older. She ended up in hospital after I was born, and she's been kind of in-and-out ever since. I honestly don't know her very well."

Rosie rocks back and forth where she's sat, eyes wide and shining. "Blimey. _Scor_."

"It's okay." I shrug, gaze fixed at the small heap of shredded grass in my lap.

"I'm so sorry." She throws her arms around my neck.

"Thanks," I tell her shoulder.

Beyond the jagged line of mountains, the sky begins to glow pink.

Rosie and I sit in silence for a long time, my cheek rested on her bony shoulder, hers upon my head. Finally, I feel her chest rise as she takes a breath, "s'about two weeks until the first task, yeah?"  
"Eleven days." I say. "Eleven days exactly."


	7. Brackish Water

**Heads Up (in case the recently uploaded note got missed):** I only _just_ realized that I uploaded ch4 twice (so ch3 was missing)! SO SORRY for any confusion! I'm not exactly sure why I suck so terribly at managing stories on this site, but you can search "Trials of Scorpius Malfoy" on inkitt for a less wonky read.

 **CHAPTER SEVEN  
** _Scorpius tries to stay alive._

* * *

As it happens, eleven days is not a particularly long time. Rosie fills most of it being calmer and more supportive than usual. Al continues his campaign of total avoidance. I do what exactly everyone who's ever met me would imagine, and proceed to completely freak out.

In less than two weeks, I've been tardy more times than during my entire career at Hogwarts. At least my professors are sympathetic. They pretend not to notice when I shuffle in late and never ask me where I'm going when I abruptly step out of class. Hyperventilating in the _toilettes_ has more or less become my hobby.

There remains a very real chance that I might genuinely _die_.

My father still hasn't written, and for the very first time, I sort of wish he would.

* * *

On the eve of the first task we dine in the second grandest hall at Beauxbatons. A choir of wood nymphs serenade us again, but they're all but drowned out by the raucous students. Everyone year four and up clutches a flute of champagne and professor McGonagall does not appear amused. As less experienced drinkers, the Hogwarts delegation has grown the messiest. Madley has spent most of the feast wrestling bottles away from my fellows in black and sending them off to bed early.

My own glass remains untouched and has gone flat.

"You gotta eat something, Scorsius," Rosie slurs, pink in the cheeks. "Look at all s' food!"

She tries to push a tray of hors d'œuvres towards me but it clatters off the table. Salmon canapés, mushroom vol-au-vents, and creamy pâté scatter across gleaming hardwood. A knot of House Elves appear to clear the mess and I try for a bite of crusty bread. Chewing seems like much harder work than I remember.

Rosie closes one eye as she sloshes herself another drink. The foam is quick to overflow down her fingers, and she attracts a pointed glare from Madley. Within seconds, the professor is interrogating her about how much she's had while Rosie ineffectively tries to argue her own sobriety.

I let my gaze wander out the windows to the gardens.

Blooming nightshades unfurl to drink in moonlight while the other flowers rest for the evening. Way out at the bench, I see two burning embers bouncing in the dark. _Cigarettes_. With Rosie distracted, bow out onto the grounds.

"Excuse me, sorry," I call, following the cobbled path. "Do you think I could borrow a smoke?"

"Borrow?" a liquid voice laughs back. "Are you planning to give it back after?"

Horror grips my chest as I make out the shadowy features ahead. Hervé takes a deep pull of his fag, raising one curious brow at me. Beside him sits a stunningly pretty girl with dark-penciled eyes. Her lip curls up into the faintest snarl.

"Sorry, I'm—" I dither, fidgeting with the hem of my pocket. "I'll go. Sorry to bother you."

I turn around to leave but Hervé's voice calls me back. "It's alright. Why don't you come share a smoke with us, _pour digestion_."

All I want to do is run but I can't well rebuff his offer. Not after I asked in the first place. He slips a cigarette from an engraved silver case and holds it out like a challenge.

"Will you be needing a light as well?"

"No, I…" I pat my robes pockets for my wand.

"Here." He snaps and a flame flickers between his fingers.

My jaw drops. "How are you…?"

"Ah, but I can't tell." He lifts his hand and lights my fag. "You are my competition, _non_?"

The girl laughs while I gape at him.

"I'm just hoping I won't die," I confess. "You don't have to worry about me."

"Oh but I think I do, Monsieur Malfoy." Hervé sweeps up from his seat and his companion follows. He has a good few inches on me standing and I'm tall myself. His face looms close as he passes. "I think you will prove a formidable opponent."

I open and close my mouth for what feels like a long time. The shadow of a smirk plays over his mouth.

"Until tomorrow." He gently inclines his head before motioning for his friend to follow.

Their robes whisper across the grass as they disappear into the dark and I'm left standing alone. It's a few seconds before I realize that my cigarette has gone out.

* * *

I wake up with the sheets tangled around my legs and my neck and forehead feel dewy with sweat. There's a ragged ache in my chest and cold dread coursing through my veins, but for a few confused seconds, I don't remember why.

Then I see Al's empty bed beside me. The red X's on my wall calendar slashing the first twenty-three days of November.

 _Oh right, that._

There are only seven short hours left between me and the first task of the TriWizard Tournament.

I shower slowly and with care, as though I'll shatter the bar of soap with my touch, and pull on my uniform robes like my whole body is bruised. Winding down the stairs to the second level, I see Rosie passed out on the chaise lounge. Fluffy red curls flutter while she snores. I tug off her high-heels and lay down a blanket rather than wake her up. Her hangover will certainly be epic.

Unsure what to do with myself, I settle into the rolltop desk I've claimed and slip out my alchemy problem sets. It seems like the best idea to just keep myself occupied. Rote studying leaves less room for thinking, and thinking is definitely a bad idea right now.

I balance equation after equation until my scroll is crowded with ink. When I finish, I flip to the back of the textbook for extra problems to solve. The sun finishes rising behind me and the first showers begin to gurgle from above but I don't look up from my parchment.

"S' bloody cruel," Rosie groans and I start. "Making us go to lessons today before the first task and all."

My back cracks as I face her. "Oh right, because the task is going to be so trying for you."

"Alright, Mr Bitchypants. Don't get your knickers in a twist."

"Sorry," I mutter and try to return to the strings of numbers and symbols.

"Blimey, z'at the time?" she yawns. "We should head down to breakfast because you're not getting out of eating today."

I take her words as a very serious threat. Last night, she spent a good half hour in the dining car drunkenly holding me down and shoving crisps into my mouth.

 _Note to Self: Rosie resorts to assault if food she deems necessary has been denied. DO NOT ATTEMPT AGAIN._

Besides, she probably right. Going into the first task on an empty stomach is one of the (probably very many) things that could kill me later today.

The energy at breakfast best resembles the morning of a Quidditch game. Students share animated conversations and break into school Fight Songs, not missing a beat to dunk flakey pastries into cups of café au lait. All at once it starts to feel absurd. Everyone is acting like this Tournament business is normal. _Fun,_ even. I choke down a few bites of croissant because the alternative might well be _death._

Exactly nothing about this is normal or fun.

Lin steps into the solarium and joins our table without a word. She looks drained and it's a shockingly long time before she blinks.

"You holding up alright?" Rosie asks, nudging the bowl of pastries closer. I sincerely hope, for the Durmstrang champion's own sake, that she accepts them.

"Yes, great," Lin says. "I had big breakfast on ship and nice run around the palace."

"Really?" I cough on a sip of coffee.

"No." She smiles weakly. "I had vomit in shower."

The warm sound of church bells announces the start of the school day. After that, I could swear some tosser messed with the clocks. Our morning lessons blur by much faster than what anyone should ever consider reasonable. I watch helplessly as the minutes slip by like water through my fingers.

Too soon, we're crowding into the ballroom again for lunch. A few owls flutter in and out, but none of them are for me.

Nothing feels real anymore. This just can't be happening. It's too ridiculous. Too impossible. During the last TriWizard Tournament, the first task was _dragons._ Having established that I'm no match for champagne-drunk-Rosie, there's no question that a dragon could literally eat me alive.

Rosie can't stop biting her lip and nudging me every other second to take another bite. Then, her eyes stretch wide and she falls silent. I whip around to see Albus. He's walking straight for us but he doesn't meet our eyes.

"McGonagall's office," he mutters as he passes.

Then, he's gone - disappearing into crush of students darting merrily between tables.

At first, I'm not sure whether or not I just imagined him saying anything at all. Rosie and I both blink stupidly before she suddenly, and all too violently, punches me in the shoulder.

"Ow!" I cry, massaging the sore spot where she hit me.

"It's a clue!" she hisses.

"What?" I say, more preoccupied by the fact that Al may or may not have just spoken to me for the first time in what feels like an eternity.

"Listen," she lowers her voice further. "Uncle Harry got a heads up about the dragons before the first task happened. I think all the champions knew. And I'm _sure_ he believes you that you didn't enter yourself, so I bet he gave Al a clue to pass along to you! Whatever you're meant to fight, it must have something to do with McGonagall's office!"

I frown back at her and consider what she's saying. "That… makes no sense."

"Come on, think!" she groans, massaging her temples. "What could McGonagall's office have to do with the first task?"

"I…" For the space of a second, I think she might be onto something. Logic quickly overrides that flight of fancy. "Nothing. I mean, how could our headmistress's office be related _at all_?"

"Oh what, so you think it's more logical that Al just suddenly decided to blurt that out for no reason at all after avoiding you for weeks?"

It would have hurt less to slap me.

"Sorry, Scor-" She buries her face in her hands. "But come on, _think_. This has to be important!"

"Malfoy," McGonagall calls, marching briskly for our table.

I'm seized by a moment of blind panic that she somehow overheard us talking. We've been caught trying to cheat, and now I'll be kicked out of the Tournament.

Wait.

That would be fantastic!

"The champions have to come down onto the grounds now," she says instead, and I'm too confused to remember whether I'm meant to feel relieved or not. Probably _not._ "It's time to get ready for your first task."

Rosie looks flustered as our headmistress steers me away, and I catch her mouthing ' _think'_ at me. Conflicting emotions butt up against one another. On the one hand, _Albus talked to me!_ On the other, What?

Even if Roise _is_ right, and he'd meant to give me a clue, why did he have to be so bloody cryptic about it? As I understand, his father got to _see_ what he was up against with his own eyes. No riddles, no bizarre implications of school faculty. Just 'heads up Harry, motherfucking _dragons._ '

I'm no closer to understanding what is about to happen. If anything, I'm more scared and confused than I was before. I almost wish Al hadn't said anything at all.

Almost.

But not really.

If it is a clue, then that means Albus is rooting for me. Or at least, doesn't want to see me gobbled up by some unknown evil. Not a lot to rebuild our relationship on, but it's something.

McGonagall leads me to the entrance of a silk tent at the edge of the inlet. Across the water, stadium seats rise against the backdrop of the Pyrenees. The sun has reached it's apex, and everything should be beautiful.

My headmistress holds open the flap door, and I step out of the sunlight.

"And this is Hogvarts?" says a middle aged man with bowed shoulders.

The other two champions are already sat on opposite benches. Lin is staring off into space and barely seems to register that I've entered the tent. Hervé sits still as a statue, chewing his cheek. His intensity is utterly terrifying.

"Scorpius Malfoy, representing Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," McGonagall announces and lays a hand on my shoulder.

"Viktor Krum." The man offers me a handshake. "1994 Durmstrang champion, and one of the judges for today."

"Oh, hi, yes," I say. His broad hand engulfs mine and I half worry it might break. "Nice to meet you."

"Well, there we have it." McGonagall gives my shoulder a firm squeeze. She seems momentarily like she's fretting, but soon resigns to head back out of the tent.

My throat feels dry and I have exactly no ideas about what to do with myself.

Viktor Krum tells us his spiel about how the first task is meant to judge our daring and quick thinking, so we won't know what we're up against until we're up against it. He doesn't seem very enthusiastic about giving this speech and takes his leave with very little fanfare.

At first I think it's just my anxiety, but soon I decide that there's some sort of silencing charm around the tent. I feel the crowds crossing the grounds but there's no sound from outside. Footfalls radiate and the silken walls quiver, but we three champions are left with only the echoes of our own fidgets and shallow breaths.

When the flap opens again, the noise from outside is like a roar after so much silence. We all start. Krum beckons for Hervé, but the Beauxbatons champion just flashes him an antagonist sort of glare. For a moment, I think he might take a swing at the judge. Then his face relaxes into neutrality and he rises.

Silence swallows us again as the tent closes behind him.

I'm sat on the bench beside Lin, elbows on my knees as I cradle my head, when I feel thunderous tremors shake the ground beneath us. All at once, Lin seizes my hand hard but keeps her eyes fixed on the far wall. Neither of us can help but grip each other's fingers harder every time the earth quakes from whatever is happening outside.

 _McGonagall's office. Mc_ GON _agall's_ off _ICE_.

Over and over again I twist the clue in my mind, probing it for whatever secrets it might contain. My lungs take a sharp breath and Lin jumps.

"Hey, I dunno but…" My voice is cracking and dry. "I think I might have gotten a clue about what we're going to face."

She looks like she might be sick if she tries to speak, but her eyes tell me to keep talking.

"I don't know what it means, but it might have something to do with my headmistress' office?"

There's a long pause, and after, Lin only looks more scared. "What is that meaning?"

"I don't know!" I groan and hang my head. "There are all these arcane instruments, and a bunch of portraits of old headmasters, and this sort of corkscrew staircase thing. And… she's Scottish? Maybe? But her office isn't Scottish-y…"

I babble while Lin nods slowly in a 'you have definitely cracked' sort of way.

"The passwords are always sweets?" I finish, saying the last possible thing I can think of.

"Thank you," she says, but I know she doesn't mean it at all.

An almighty sonic pulse rents the air again and she and I jerk our heads to see Krum stood against a sliver of blazing sky.

"Scorpinus Malfoyle," he says. "It is you now."

Lin's fingernails rake my hand as I rise mechanically to my feet. At this point, my body seems to be functioning automagically.

"To complete this task, you must-" Krum gulps, as though annoyed. "'Go for the Gold.' That is what they have me say. 'Go or the Gold.' It vill be important clue for next task."

Ok.

Wait, not ok.

What?

Fearsome sunlight assaults and I blink, stepping into the cacophony outside the tense bubble of our tent. The crowd cheers and stomps across the water as Krum leads me to the shore. Beside me, the judges platform rises, and I see four members of the panel clapping me on. I'm vaguely aware that the panel's identity has been jealously guarded; it's been meant as a Big Surprise. A kickoff to the 'festivities.' There have been whispers and speculations for weeks, both among students and in the newspapers, but I haven't had enough space to care about the pomp and circumstance, what with my impending peril and all.

Giving a cursory glance upward, I see the _président de la magie_ , a curtain of white-gold hair shimmering in the sunlight, and… green eyes.

Because, wait-

 _Duh._

There are three living TriWizard champions. One happens to be the most important figure in the history of European Magic. And sure, he's busy. But his son is here.

I am an actual fool. A self-absorbed, can't see past my own nose, _fool._

Harry Potter beams as he brings his hands together. Then, my foot catches on jagged rocks, and I'm tumbling forward into a creaky wooden rowboat. Krum begins to frame something like an apology, but the boat takes off. I barely have time to right myself as it skids across the water at breakneck speed.

Brackish flecks spray my face as the boat cuts a course across sparkling surface. At the centre of the inlet sits a small wooden platform, and I'm only surprised that my boat knocks against it because everything feels surprising right now. Taking care not to capsize, I climb onto the structure because that's what I'm probably meant to do now.

The audience's excitement swells. I can only assume it's because some medieval fascination public execution has come back into vogue.

I pull myself upright in the middle of the platform and… stand.

Okay.

So.

 _Oh no…_

The gently rippling surface of the water begins to agitate. Reflected sky fractures. Something is coming up.

 _FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK._

Wicked black spikes brake the surface, curved like scythes. Something pushes against the tide with tremendous strength and I take several unconscious steps back. There comes a sudden, unholy sucking sound as an inky beast emerges. It's furious growl sends a shudder through me and my hairs stand up on end.

The scythes top black, batlike wings. They beat as it rises into the air. It is pure nightmare swathed in a waterfall. The more I see of it, the more horrifying it becomes. It's skin is slick and amphibious. It's head, still thrown back, boasts horrible, yellowed fangs. It is mammal and frog and _man_ all at once. Clawed feet like paws. Muscled arms like a beater. Leather wings raising it higher, higher, higher. Each push creates a burst like wind that cuts me to my core.

Then, something yanks at it, and there's a jostle of inertia. I spy a manacle gripping its ankle and chain disappearing into the waters below.

The beast is angry. _Furious._

It jerks its head to face me and white eyes eyes meet mine. An uncanny face, like a human made horrible. Heavy brow. Eternal snarl. Two twisted horns crown his head. One, just as shadowy as the rest of him. The other, sparkling.

 _Go for the Gold._

 _McGonagall's office._

Now I understand, and I'm quite certain that naming the correct brand of sweets won't satisfy it. This is a _gargouille_ ; the monster what inspired the statues. A demon of the sea.

And I'm meant to wrest one of his horns from his head.

Well.

That is _definitely_ not going to happen.

The gargouille hovers in the air and fixes me with a milky stare. All at once there's a peal of everything horrible - nails on chalkboard, yarn through teeth, and a sound like I imagine the apocalypse would sound like. I throw my hands over my ears and stagger back. One foot slides over the edge of the platform. Wavering on the spot, only my panic-heightened nerves save me from tumbling down into the water. I lurch forward, which unfortunately happens to be the direction of the beast.

He lunges towards me but the chain pulls taut. His reach only extends so far.

I seriously consider just swimming away and giving up, but I can't actually swim. My doggie-paddle is okay best, but I have to hold my nose if ever I dunk my head under. And entering a water demon's natural habitat can't possibly be the smart move right now.

But.

Okay.

He can't get me where I'm stood. So _think_.

Water thing; try fire.

" _Incendio!_ " I shout, whipping my wand into the most dangerous augmentative maneuver I've ever read about.

The fireball explodes into a shockwave of heat and and I recoil. All moisture on my person evaporates and I smell burnt hair. The creature shrieks and its batting wings stoke the flames. And then-

A deluge of water. I gasp and splutter under the torrent. It's just as brackish as the inlet, but thicker. Like saliva. While dragons spit fire, the gargouille spits water.

Apparently.

In retrospect, that should have been obvious. I'm on a crickety wooden platform in the wettest possible place save the Pacific. There isn't fire enough in the world.

The smoke is thick from my extinguished spell and I can no longer see the creature. Instead, I hear it. Or rather, the sound of its chain, moving. Deep below, there comes an unsettling _creak_. The beast is circling around the platform. Whatever it's anchored to can rotate.

No part of the platform is safe. So long as I'm at the far end from it, it can't get me. But it _can_ loop around.

I consider clearing the smoke, but that would mean I'd have to _see_ it. I feel like a child again, afraid of the monster in the closet, and so sure that burying my head under the covers will keep me safe. Or at least, spare me the terror before it takes me.

But closing my eyes won't make this go away.

I lash my wand in a spiral and the smoke falls into ash. Now I can see it again, and it's a lot closer than I thought it would be.

Another roar sends me scrambling to the further edge of the structure. But the gargouille is faster now. It's learned how to navigate its bondage. There comes another cascade of something like water but more terrible and I'm blinded.

Spitting, hacking, and choking for breath on all fours, sharp pain cleaves across my back. Even as drenched as I am, I feel my own thick blood blooming from the gash marks of its claws. I scramble, slipping in the mix of red-tinged water and _not_ water, but the monster is too quick. This time its hand hardens into a punch. I'm winded, sliding over the uneven boards until I almost topple off the edge.

Sucking in a desperate breath I pinch my fingers over my slick nose, and let myself fall.

Water in my ears dulls all sound. I try to open my eyes but it stings too much. As far as I can tell, it's too murky to see anything anyway. Lack of oxygen brings panic and it takes all of my self control not to gasp for air until I break the surface. The gargouille has followed me into the water, and its impossible body is better adapted than my own. My arms crash through the gentle tide as I paddle away, away, but it's faster than me. I change course, and duck into the shadows beneath the platform.

I know its talons tear at my leg but the pain is dulled by the water so I press further. Just as soon as I clear the platform, it roars behind me. My hand catches splinters as push myself off the support beam but it gives me a burst of speed. I cut a diagonal under the platform again.

I'm reminded of my cousin Phoebe chasing me around the kitchen table. I would race away only for her to switch directions, but we more or less kept the same diameter of distance.

That was Phoebe. Two children in a dining room. She was definitely the more athletic than I, but it was a closer match.

The diameter between the gargouille and myself continues to shrink.

My arms ache from paddling and my lungs can't get enough air. I feel claws grasping at me. Every deluge from it's mouth stops me in my tracks.

Around and around I go until-

 _Yes._

The chain tightens under the water with a sound like a rubber band. The monster has run out of slack. I've roped his binds around these poles a dozen times, and now he's stuck to untangle the knots.

It takes every strength I have to hoist myself up onto the platform. I collapse, winded, on my back.

I haven't won. I don't know how to win. But I'm still alive, and I've bought myself some time.

It's not a lot, but it's something.

I gulp air and gaze into the fierce blue sky above. Below, I hear metal grinding against metal.

 _BOOM._

The platform lurches.

 _BOOM._

Wood splinters.

 _BOOM._

The monster's head breaks through. Lodged in the wreckage, I see one glittering horn. My drenched fingers slide over its surface as I struggle to keep hold of it.

Then-

 _Boom._

The platform groans as it collapses. There's no time to think. No time to plan.

My panicked lungs gasp for air but find only water. There's a sting as it invades up my nose and the headache is instant. The more I try to breathe, the more I continue to drown. One monstrous hand seizes my ankle, tugging me deeper, deeper, into a place where no human was ever meant to be.

The shimmering world above disappears as we descend.

And then everything is dark.


	8. Dead Last

**CHAPTER EIGHT**  
 _Scorpius tries new things._

* * *

I wake up choking. Waterlogged lungs struggle to gasp each rattling breath. My head pounds and my eyes feel stung and unfocused.

"Shh, _tu vas bien_ ," someone says in a soothing voice. "You will be alright."

Professor Beaulieu presses me back down onto the crisp sheets and I wince from the sharp pain along my back. My torso is wound with bandages but the pillow feels cool against my cheek.

Lin is sat up at another bed while a Healer dabs paste onto a gash above her brow, but she looks more or less unharmed and gives me a dizzy sort of smile.

"Hey," I croak. "How did you do? I'm sorry I missed you."

"I was getting a seven on average," She shrugs, but looks pleased with herself anyway. "Hervé had ten."

"'Course he did," I grumble. "Do you… do you know what I got?"

Lin looks embarrassed and shakes her head that she doesn't know. That must indicate that I didn't fare well, and I can't help but wonder whether it's possible to achieve negative points. It doesn't seem like either of the other champions had to be rescued.

"A five average," Beaulieu supplies for her. "Nuzzing to be ashamed of."

"But you got the horn!" Lin says, jabbing a finger at my bedside. "It is good! You can be making it up in next task!"

Right now, I'm just glad to be alive. Future tasks are exactly the last thing I want to think about.

"Come on, let me through!" I hear Rosie's voice shouting outside, and a second later, she's bounding through the flap door out of breath. "Scor!" I'm scooped up into a flurry of red hair and the gashes along my back smart. "I was so scared! And then when they got you out of the water, you were unconscious! I thought… I thought you might have…"

All at once, she's sobbing into my shoulder and I realize I've never seen her cry before.

"I'm ok," I groan, tenderly lying back down. "Was all there?"

Rosie bites her lip. "I saw him leave right after you got rescued."

Professor Beaulieu administers a potion for my pain while Rosie gives me a blow-by-blow of the other champions. I'm hardly surprised that Hervé performed perfectly—knocking out the gargouille with a spell and then swimming down to retrieve the horn—but I find myself rather more impressed with Lin.

"You jumped on his _back_?" I splutter and she blushes. "That's, like… Wow. You're _really_ brave."

"Or really stupid," she mumbles. "I was losing points for damaging real horn when I pulled off gold. And then I was hitting my head when I jumped back onto platform."

"Yeah, well," I sigh. "At least you got out on your own."

It isn't lost on me that I didn't survive this by myself. Now on the other side, I'm coming in dead last.

* * *

With the rest of the classes canceled for the day, Lin convinces Rosie and I to join the after party aboard the Durmstrang ship. I take care crossing the slippery dock, not keen on falling back into that terrible inlet, while Lin leads us onto the deck.

Inside, mottled wood sweats from humidity. The narrow stairwell rocks and lurches as the ship sways with the rhythm of the wind and I grip the banister tight while descending the slick steps. All around us, the structure creaks and groans, sometimes whistling where the breeze finds a gap in the planks.

Everything is gloomy and underlit, so I'm surprised when Lin pushes open a door to dazzling light.

" _Hallo_!" explodes a resounding chorus.

A magical fire roars in a hearth and more than a dozen students grin and cheer to see their champion return. The space is decently large, resembling a sort of parlour, but all of the furniture has been carved into the wood—presumably to keep it from sliding around during voyage. Long built-in sofas curve against the walls and the far corner points at an extreme angle. I gather we're in the bow of the ship.

" _Sju, sju, sju, sju_!" the Durmstrang crowd begins to chant, punching their fists in the air or clapping Lin on the back.

"That is meaning 'seven,'" she explains. "They are happy I'm coming in second."

Rosie and I dawdle near the door while the others celebrate, but no one seems to be bothered by the fact that we're here.

"You are Scorpius Malfoy?" a bloke with a thick German accent asks and extends his hand. "You vere being very clever today tricking your gargouille."

"Erm, thanks," I shrug. "This is my friend Rosie, by the way."

"Rosie?" he says, bowing to kiss her hand. " _Schön._ "

Those friends of Lin's that I've met already soon seek us out and press drinks into our hands.

"You haff had Akvavit?" Pavel asks, pouring honey-coloured liquor into a small glass. "It is how to drinking the Nordic way."

I shake my head 'no' while Rosie enthusiastically accepts the shot.

"You drink this first," Nastja explains, cracking open a bottle of dark beer. "Then you follow with Akvavit."

Rosie gives me a nudge so a take a delicate sip from the bottle and try not to pull a face. It tastes a bit like chocolate, only disgusting. The Akvavit is oddly herby by contrast, but scorching, and leaves my throat feeling rough.

"It's good!" Pavel claps me on the back and I cough.

The sound of a wireless warbles to life and Lin twists the knobs past what sounds like French news before landing on a pop station. Cranking up the volume, dance-rock swells inside the ship.

"What do you think it does?" Rosie asks a few hours later, turning Lin's golden horn over in her hand.

Empty bottles and glasses scatter the tables and Celestina Warbeck croons from the wireless. The atmosphere of the part has begun to relax and we're all sat about discussing the hard-won clues.

There are designs carved into the horn, all abstract swirls, and it's hard to tell whether they're supposed to mean something. The twist of gold is hollow with a small opening at the point.

"Maybe." Rosie frowns. "It's like, a _horn_."

There's a brief pause before everyone starts laughing. Rosie sticks out her tongue.

"No, I mean, like—in the last Tournament, the clue was a sort of song, so maybe this…" She raises the golden cone to her lips like a trumpet and blows.

A farty sort of noise comes out.

"Or maybe not," she laughs.

"No, that was actually pretty clever," I say.

"Enough of that all." Pavel slams a deck of cards on the table with a bang. "Champions vorry about next task tomorrow. Today, ve celebrate for Durmstrang."

"And Hogwarts," Lin says.

"And Hogvarts," he agrees.

"What are we playing?" Rosie scoots closer in her seat.

" _Zauberkelch_ ," Nastja says. "'Wizard's Cup.' You will be needing a drink, Scor."

I try to tell her I'm alright with water, but the others adamantly shake their heads. Lin promises to mix me something mild and returns with a fizzing glass of mead and mineral water. The drink turns out to be pretty good—all sweet and bubbly rather than bitter or burny.

Pavel lays the cards face down in a circle around an ornate old goblet. There seems to be a lot less of them than normal, maybe thirty or forty, and Nastja explains that it's a German " _Tarock_ " deck. The Durmstrang students spend a while trying to explain the rules before giving up and insisting we'll get the hang of it.

Everyone unanimously agrees that Lin should go first, so she blushes as she draws the first card at random.

"Ach, _König_ ," Pavel says, glancing down at her king.

She shrugs and sloshes some beer into the goblet. I'm next, so I follow her lead and pick up another card. A nine. I blink at the others for some direction.

"With this card, we all lifting three fingers," Nastja says, raising a hand. "And are saying something we never doing. If you have done, then you drink."

"Oh!" Rosie cries. "'Never Have I Ever'! I'm shite at this game."

"Alright." I take a moment to think. "Never have I ever been drunk."

Everyone looks surprised at me and takes a swig from their cups.

"Don't worry," Pavel smirks. "We fix that."

Nastja's up next, so she smiles coyly and straightens her back. "Never I have ever kissed boy."

The other girls each lower a finger and down another gulp.

"Erm, Scor." Rosie nudges me. " _Drink._ "

Panic blooms, but her comment seems all but ignored by the group. I blush and take a dainty sip of my cocktail, hoping to move on quickly.

It takes Rosie a long time to think of something she hasn't done. Eventually she gives up and settles for mundane ('never have I ever been to Germany.') To nobody's surprise, she's the first to lose the round.

The game gets sillier the longer we play. Soon, we're all laughing so much we strike out of even simple tasks like word association. Pavel's been enchanted to sing every word he says and Rosie has to stand up and do a daft little jig every time she swears. Which is a lot.

"Oh, Koonig," I say, pulling up another king, and splash some of my drink into the goblet.

"No, wait." Lin counts the discarded cards on the table. "That was fourth king."

"Fourth king you do not add to cup," Pavel explains to the tune of Auld Lang Syne. "You _drink_ cup."

I can't help but gasp, appalled, and everybody laughs. Our goblet has become an unholy marriage of beer, Akvavit, and something that sounds disturbingly like 'glug.' That I've added my own mead and soda to the mix can't possibly help any.

"You do not have to drink, if don't want to." Lin shrugs.

"No, you _definitely_ have to." Rosie grins.

All at once, my back's being clapped and my hair's being ruffled. The Durmstrang crowd offer nudges of encouragement, merrily joining in when Rosie starts a chant of, "drink, drink, drink, drink!"

Fists beat against the table as the chant speeds up. I feel giddy and overwhelmed by the attention. This is most definitely what Madley was talking about when she sat the Hufflepuffs down in third year for a lecture about Peer Pressure.

"Fine! Ok!" I cry, scooping up the goblet from the centre of the table.

Everybody breaks into applause as I raise the foul-smelling drink to my lips. It might be the most complicated thing I've ever tasted. More like a potion than something you'd want to drink recreationally. The flavor is at once syrupy, bitter, spicy, and creamy, and the carbonation doesn't make it any easier to choke down. Stray drops dribble to my chin as I chug.

Finally, I drain the last of it, and I feel my cheeks and ears flush hot. There's something like a burp in my chest but it doesn't release.

"Oof." I lean back in my chair, only mildly dizzy. "I, uh. I think I need some air."

The others cheer and jostle my shoulders like I've done something impressive. I might be a crap TriWizard champion, but at least I succeed in downing questionable concoctions.

Victory?

"I come with you," Lin says, sliding out from the bench.

The Durmstrang champion gives me a steadying hand up the stairs and the cold, night air on deck comes as a relief. Feeling a little wonky after my monstrous cocktail, I ask if we can take a break on solid ground. It's hard to tell whether it's the liquor or the waves making me unsteady.

We perch ourselves at the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the water, and Lin surprises me by producing a pack of cigarettes.

"Oh, blimey," I say while she stabs one between her lips. "Do you think I can have one of those?"

"They are herbal— _Weasley's Wheezes_." She shrugs. "I trying not to smoke."

"Probably just as well," I say, accepting one. "I'm trying not to smoke, too."

She and I puff in silence for a minute, and the herbal cigarette is somewhat less satisfying than the real thing. Then again, it gives me something to do with my hands and an excuse to just sit outside for a minute and _breathe_. That's most of what attracts me to smoking in the first place.

"Can I ask you question?" she pipes up. "Alboos—you are boyfriends with him?"

"Ha." I furrow my brows and take another drag. "Honestly, I'm not sure. He never properly ended it, or told me it was over, but… I dunno. It seems pretty over."

Saying it out loud hurts a lot more than I'd expected. As if saying it makes it more real.

"Huh." Lin frowns into the distance. "Is it… Maybe just because we are talking of him, but is that Alboos over there?"

"Wh—" At first I think she's making some sort of uncharacteristically terrible joke. Then I turn, following her gaze into the distance.

Someone is running, _sprinting_ towards us. I almost don't want to believe it, but there's no question that the silhouette is Al. Panicking, I drop my cigarette into the inlet, then feel a surge of guilt for polluting the pristine grounds. I wonder how practical it would be to try a summoning charm to retrieve it, but before I can organize my thoughts, Al is upon us.

I half think he might be coming just to punch me in the face. My heart does a somersault to see him anyway.

His eyes blaze but his face is inscrutable. I'm too stunned to say something. Too _scared_ to say something, lest I upset whatever conjured him here and he vanishes.

"Come with me," is all he says before turning back around.

The turn of events is too sudden and strange and ironic to wrap my head around. My eyes swivel between Lin, and the sight of Al receding again into the distance. She looks as surprised as I am. I manage only a grimace before wordlessly following him into the night.

I can't help but feel like Orpheus' lover, the way I trail behind while he presses on without looking back. But in this version, I'm the one terrified of losing _him_ again. As the legend goes: this time, forever.

Climbing aboard the train, the dining carriage feels sweltering after the brisk night air but I don't stop to unfasten my cloak. Al doesn't break pace as he twists up, up the decks. I follow him just as far as his new bedroom but pause when he steps inside. It's hard not to feel like I'm not invited in.

"Close the door behind you." He waves a hand and I'm overjoyed to oblige. "So, I haven't wanted to look at this."

The damning _Daily Prophet_ flutters onto the bed and I avert my eyes. Al paces, running his hands through his hair. I hang my head, but I can't help but notice the fervent energy radiating off of him. There's anger there, but somehow, it isn't directed at me.

"But then, seeing you today during the task… I dunno. I went back and… Here, look." He stabs a finger at the page. "The clock."

I hesitantly squint down before his green gaze meets mine again, full to brimming with meaning. I don't follow.

"Midnight," he says. "Just after midnight… I'm— _Merlin_ —I'm _so sorry_ I doubted you."

Recognition clicks.

"Scor, You were with _me_ at midnight. You have an alibi!"

Well.

At least _we_ know I didn't put my name into the Goblet of Fire.


	9. Star Crossed Lovers

**CHAPTER NINE**  
 _Scorpius tries not to fight._

* * *

A list of things I like about Al, in no particular order: The way he scrunches his nose when his reading glasses start to slide. The cowlick at the back of his head, where the hair grows the wrong direction. His shrewd green eyes. His crooked fingers. The freckle on his bottom lip…

I recite his details, watching him watch me. Our yellow curtains warm the morning light.

"I love the way you move," he says. "You're all long and… flappy."

"Flappy?" I frown.

"Yeah." He sweeps his arms out wide to imitate my jerky gestures. "You feel with your whole body."

My face flushes with embarrassment and I press my forehead into his shirt.

"And you're more flamboyant than you realize," he says.

I snap my face up. "I am _not_ flamboyant."

"Yes you are!" he laughs. "You're bloody obsessed with beauty. I love that about you."

Nestling closer to his chest I lace my fingers into his, admiring the way our hands look together. My head rises and falls with his every breath.

It's been two days since the first task. Two glorious, relaxed, doom-free days. With the nightmare of the first task behind me and Al and I reunited, I feel happier than I have all term. The press have been contented to discuss my miserable performance, but they've otherwise drifted away from personal attacks and speculation.

Not that I really care. At least not right now. There are more important things.

Al seems oddly disturbed that my father still hasn't written, but I'm not bothered. Draco rarely owled when I was at Hogwarts. When he did, it was only ever to give me a telling off.

No news can only mean he isn't sufficiently cross with me yet.

* * *

Al and I sit our morning History and Ethics lesson together, and I'm almost absurdly overjoyed not to be sending furtive glances at the back of his head anymore. Just the feeling of him beside me thrills. Jotting down notes from Professor Beaulieu's lecture, I can't help but wear a goofy sort of grin.

The professor wraps up class five minutes before the bell is set to ring and produces a stack of thick parchment cards.

"We 'ave a very special announcement," she says, delicately flicking her wand so that the cards hover to each of our desks. "As is Tournament tradition, ze Yule Ball will be 'eld Christmas night in ze grand ballroom."

 _Damn._

The professor continues to explain about the upcoming festivities and I glance down at the invitation card. Of course, formal attire is required. And of course, as Hogwarts champion, I don't have the option of bowing out. Lin, Hervé and I are meant to begin the night's dancing with our dates, which introduces the extra complication of figuring out who to go with.

The students begin to chat excitedly just as soon as the bells ring and Al and I gather our books.

"I completely forgot about the Yule Ball," I moan as we walk to our next class. "I never thought I'd be staying so I didn't bother packing any dress robes."

Then again, that might be for the best. I look like a bloody prat in dress robes.

"You can borrow some of mine." Al shrugs.

My eyes can't help but narrow. "You packed dress robes?"

"I packed everything. Wasn't sure what we'd need during the first week."

Sure. That works.

I don't bother pointing out that Al is quite a bit shorter than me. His robes are likely to leave a lot of ankle exposed.

Deep red leaves blanket the gardens as we cut down a path to the greenhouses, but I'm preoccupied with Al's mood. Something about him seems like it's closing off. Like he's retreated back into himself.

"So," he says in too even a voice. "Who are you planning to take to the ball?"

"Well you know I _want_ to just hang out with you..."

"But I can't be your date, so…"

I scratch the back of my head and pretend not to notice how chilly he's being. "Was thinking Lin? Maybe? She knows, you know, that it'd just be as mates."

"Because you don't like girls."

"Well," I lower my voice. " _Yeah._ "

"But that's not the problem, is it?" Rhetorical question. "You can't go with me because you're dad's a paranoid maniac, not because I'm a boy."

I stop and tug him down an abandoned side path. "Is this… Are we fighting? Is this a fight? Because I _really, really_ don't want to fight with you."

"It's not a fight," he says in that too-cool voice, which means it is most definitely a fight. "I just don't understand why you'd need to go with a girl at all."

"Just…" I bite my lip, thinking hard. "It'd be easier to go with a girl just as mates than with a bloke just as mates. I mean, do you really want me going with another boy anyway?"

Silence. His eyes have that intense, inscrutable thing going on. I decide the best course of action is to snog his face off.

We tumble backwards and bounce off a hedgerow before landing heavy on the grass.

"Wait," he laughs, winded. "We'll be late for Botanical Arts!"

"So?" I say, burying my face in his neck.

"Good point."

* * *

Later that day, Al introduces Rosie and I to the Beauxbatons _bibliotheque_ —seven labyrinthine storeys of reading rooms—and we spend the rest of the evening studying in a specially reserved chamber overlooking the valley. Or rather, he and I study while Rosie shreds her star chart into a thousand tiny pieces. That she's meant to be filling out, not destroying it, hasn't seemed to occur to her.

"Eurgh, are you two playing footsie under the table?" She scrunches up her face. "You disgust me."

"We're adorable," I say.

With a flick of her wand, Rosie's confetti-fied homework scatters in the air. I have to admit that the overall effect is rather pretty. By the time a piece of the sagittarius constellation flutters down onto my workbook, she looks bored again.

"Oh yeah!" She grins. "You'll never guess who asked me to the ball today."

"Everyone," Al deadpans, stretching out his arms. "Just… _all of them._ "

"Close." She nods. "Pretty Boy!"

I cock my head to the side. "Who?"

" _Pretty Boy_." She sounds exasperated. "What's-his-face Devereaux. The _Beauxbatons champion_."

I can't help but squawk with surprise and Al's jaw drops.

"You're not considering it, are you?"

"'Course not." She waves a hand. "Told him 'maybe' just to mess with him, because it's obvious he actively dislikes me. I reckon it's a publicity stunt."

Makes sense. Rosie's racked up more _Daily Prophet_ mentions than any of the champions so far, including me. _And_ she hasn't even played her emergency Teen Pregnancy card yet. Attending the Yule Ball with Rose Granger Weasley would be the quickest way to a _Witch Weekly_ profile.

I suppose his perspective is justifiable. Hervé must have entered his name in the hopes of glory, so he has every right to feel frustrated. His impeccable performance in the first task has been all but overshadowed by my own absurd inadequacy.

It probably says something about the modern world that the media cares more about ridiculing failure than praising success. Whatever the Tournament was supposed to symbolize has gotten lost in the mire of its own sideshow.

"Anyway," she goes on. "I was thinking I'd take a girl to the ball. Maybe do a whole Coming Out story thing."

Al's eyes flicker up, but he doesn't say anything.

"Who's the lucky lady?" I ask, snatching my own star chart away before she can demolish it.

"Lin, maybe? She seems cool."

"No! _I'm_ asking Lin!"

"You two are the actual worst." Al shakes his head. "Has it occurred to either of you that Elinor might want a real date? She's not just some pawn in your deranged tabloid games."

 _Ouch._ His criticism leave me withered and speechless, if only because he's right. However anxious it might make me, the Yule Ball is meant to be fun. Lin has every right to enjoy it.

The moon rises over the valley and a brook snaking through the forest glitters silver in the light. I feel a fit of inspiration and start rummaging through my ruckie. My problem, after all, is that I tend not to see far enough outside of myself to get the whole picture. Maybe I need a _change of perspective._

Rosie and Al watch on curiously as I retrieve the silver horn, raising it to one eye while I close the other.

 _Well, worth a shot._

"Did that do anything?" she asks.

"Nope," I sigh. "I keep thinking I have an idea, and then I just… don't."

"And you tried dunking it in water?" Al says.

"It came out of the water." I shrug. "But yeah, I gave water a shot."

I've tried drowning it, filtering water through it, using it to blow bubbles, and banging it on various surfaces—though that last tactic was usually just out of frustration. In what sounded like a clever idea at the time, Rosie even tried setting it on fire (theory going that if a dragon's egg needed water, a gargouille's horn needed flame). Nothing came of it outside of a painful blister on my thumb.

With the clue back in our midst, the three of us find it difficult to discuss anything else.

"Just don't leave it until the last minute," he says for the hundredth time.

"Is that another piece of brilliant Harry Potter wisdom?" Rosie rolls her eyes. "Like 'McGonagall's office'?"

Al groans and apologizes again. Apparently he ran into his dad visiting with his professor aunt in the staff room, before he was even meant to know his dad was here, and (correctly) took the weird segue about our headmistress's office as a clue. Indeed, I might not have figured out 'Gargoyle' so quickly if not for that.

Then again, knowing what it was didn't help me any.

Later in the night, I'm sat up in bed scouring a book about the last tournament— _Trials and Tragedies_ by Bethany Braithewaite—and feverishly taking notes in the margins. The more I read, the more I realize I really should have taken Care of Magical Creatures and Defense Against the Dark Arts at the N.E.W.T. level. Maybe Divination as well, in order that I might have seen this disaster coming in advance and planned my academic life accordingly.

In any event, my Outstanding O.W.L. in Muggle Studies isn't likely to do me any favors.

"This is weird," Al gives a final-sounding sigh. "You're reading about my dad, like, inches away from me."

"I'm trying to figure out the clue."

"Sure, but that's not exactly light bedtime reading."

"Neither is your book about teenagers getting addicting to drugs," I point out. Almost every other minute he stops to complain at me about their poor life choices.

"Fair point." He closes his novel with a snap and begins rifling through his nightstand. "Compromise?"

The dust jacket of a muggle mystery novel gleams at me.

"In what universe does 'murder' sound like 'light bedtime reading' to you?"

"It's pulpy." He shrugs.

I just smile and curl into the crook of his arm while he cracks open _The Fence Lizard_ by Robert Galbraith. Al has a habit of moving his lips when he reads so I usually finish a page a little before him. But those seconds before he's ready to flip forward have never bothered me.

A little while after we finish chapter one, my eyelids start to droop. I stop following along and drift to the sound of pages rustling and his heart beating beneath my cheek.

* * *

Our bedroom door crashes open and my eyes snap open. Rosie stands framed in the threshold, hair wild from wind and eyes panicked. Late-morning sun blazes behind her making me blink.

"Oh," she says, looking down at us entangled. " _Awwww_."

"Shut up." Al slides his back up the headboard.

"Sorry." She sounds out of breath. "Emergency."

I have to tug my legs back in a hurry to keep her from breaking them as she jumps onto our bed. Rosie never was fond of the concept of Personal Space. Upending her rucksack, a deluge of assorted rubbish bounces off our blankets. Wallet, cracked tube of lipstick, ball of twine, a kind of mulch from stray bits of parchment… She rifles through the mess, shoving aside battered scrolls of notes and fraying folders, before finding what she's looking for. The glossy cover of _Teen Witch_ strikes an incongruous chord against her other long-abused possessions.

"This came out this morning," she says and presses the magazine into my hands.

Peering down at the cover photo, my blood runs cold. It's Rosie and I, sat at the water's edge, hugging. The way the image is framed, it isn't clear that it's just a hug.

 _STAR CROSSED LOVERS_ , the hot pink headline reads.

"Shit," Al breathes.

Frantic, I fan the pages until I find the main article. At least a dozen photos of Rosie and I accompany the piece, each covertly snapped during our walk two weeks ago—our 'moonlit stroll,' as the writer calls it. In picture after picture, the gentle affection between us looks anything but platonic.

 _Things definitely seem serious between Britain's Golden Daughter and the TriWizard Dark Horse,_ the article reads. _On the eve of the First Task, Scorpius hosted Rose for a sleepover in his quarters._ Teen Witch _can only guess what she chose to give him as a good luck charm._

Photo: Rosie and I climbing aboard my carriage the night of the feast; then, the pair of us disembarking the following morning.  
Bolded Caption: _Could a sleepless night have meant a shoddy showing by Malfoy against the gargouille?_

"The _shite_ thing..." She bites her lip. "Is that my emergency Teen Pregnancy card is probably off the table now."

"So far off the table," I say.

Just when I thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, the door rattles with a brisk knock. The three of us trade anxious looks.

"Scorpius?" Madley's soft voice calls from the hall. "Are you there? I need a word."

A thousand worries flood my mind and I can practically hear my universe ripping at the seams.

"Go!" Al hisses, waving his hands at Rosie. "The closet."

He and I are still half dressed, beds pressed together.

"Uh, one second!" I shout back.

We scramble, cursing the noise it makes to separate the beds again. The closet is too shallow for Rosie to shut the doors so she curls up under my overcoat. Anyone taking a close enough look would be painfully aware that a person sat huddled beneath. Al tugs a jumper over his bare chest while I twirl a dressing gown around my shoulders.

Pulling the door open a crack, I try not to sound out of breath. "Hi Professor. What's up?"

"Could you come down to my office, please?" She bites her lip. "Your father would like to speak to you."

I glance back at Al on instinct and he looks as stunned as I feel. It's not possible for Draco to have come all the way to France just to tell me off. Not least because he hasn't had a passport since the '90s.

"Please be quick getting ready," Madley says, then lowers her voice. "And Miss Weasley, it might be a good idea to avoid being seen when you leave. Maybe don't make a habit of visiting Scorpius in his room."

"Bollocks," Rosie sighs from under my coat.

My knees tremble and I feel dizzy as I twist the knob to Madley's office five minutes later. Noticing the seam on my shirtsleeve, I realize I put it on wrong-side out.

"Come in," the professor says as I shuffle in the doorway. A velvet shawl drapes over something round-looking on her desk. "You can take a seat."

Madley pulls back the fabric and I jump to see a reflection in the crystal ball beneath. To my surprise, it isn't my reflection at all; it's my father's.

"Scorpius." His voice sounds distant, as if from behind glass, and his face appears weirdly distorted in the orb. "Are we alone?"

I see Madley take a step toward the door but I give an almost indiscernible shake of the head.

"Yes," I lie. "We're alone."

"I haven't wanted to risk writing," he says. "It isn't beyond them to begin intercepting our owls."

 _Them._ He loves talking about _them_. I'm still not exactly sure who he means, but I'm pretty sure the answer is just _everyone_.

I stare back at him, unsettled by the way his translucent face hangs where my own ought to be. The rest of the office appears upside-down within the sphere.

"I… I don't know what to say." He shakes his head. "This news about Miss Weasley and yourself… I never would have thought this of you. Although I suppose it explains why you were so keen to join the Hogwarts Delegation."

My mouth feels dry and my head spins. A thousand excuses rise in my throat like sick but not a single one seems good enough. If my father is still suffering from the delusion that I _wanted_ to go to Beauxbatons, how can I possibly explain to him that I'm not dating Rosie?

"I'd like to think that this…" he goes on. "This relationship—putting your name in the goblet—is just some… rebellion, rather than an act of sabotage."

"No!" I cry. "I'm not—I would never—"

"Good," he says, voice firm and urgent. "There is only one option left to you at this point, or I fear that the worst may come to pass. Scorpius, you must _tread lightly…_ "

So that's the way it is. Hearing your son insist someone entered him into a life-threatening Tournament against his will? No big deal. Discovering that he nearly drowned facing off against a bloody _dragon of the sea_? Child's play. Magazine gossip that he's going out with Rose Weasley? _Emergency._

* * *

Peeking through the vines climbing the gazebo, I can see the horde of reporters shifting their weight, cameras poised, waiting for the moment when Rosie and I finally emerge. I briefly weigh the pro's and con's of just kipping out here tonight. For the first time, Al is the one acting as cover. It wouldn't be unlike them for the journalists to suggest that she and I are shagging in here.

While I love the girl to death, the passing thought sends a shudder up my spine.

"If it makes you that uncomfortable, then why don't we just go with the 'I'm a lesbian' thing?"

"Come on, Ro." Al shakes his head. "Remember all those articles criticizing Hermione's mothering skills when it came out that you were on the potion? You could maybe convince them that you're bisexual, but that won't stop them thinking you're going out with Scor."

"Well maybe I just hadn't, like, come into it yet, but now I'm a hundred percent for girls."

"Unless this is your twisted way of coming out to us, I really don't understand why you're so obsessed with telling everyone you're gay."

"I guess I'm just curious what they'd do." She shrugs. "Okay, Plan A then."

"This is _so_ not Plan A," I speak up for the first time.

I'm still reeling after the conversation with my father. Having been fully convinced by the story that Rosie and I are 'an item,' his new strategy is that I don't do anything to muck it up. Sitting through his stilted lecture on keeping witches happy might have been our most awkward talk to date, not least because of how superficial it all sounded. _Buy her presents. Listen to her talk and try to remember details. If she says she's 'fine,' she's lying; apologize immediately._ He sounded like a chapter from _Twelve More Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches_ , and not a single word of his advice suited Rosie at all. Lucky the two of us aren't actually dating.

"Listen," she goes on. "He's mostly worried because he think my parents will, like, _retaliate_ or something if things don't go well. Like, they'll send him to Azkaban if you break my heart or whatever. So if we can just get him to calm down about _that_ …"

If we can get him to calm down about that, then I only have to listen to him worry about my performance as Hogwarts Champion. Twenty minutes I spent nodding and gulping while he passed on his instructions about romance, but he spared only a few seconds going over my _upcoming mortal peril_ in the next task.

"Don't say or do anything to compromise us, and remember that your performance in the tournament is being watched closely." Only when we said our last goodbyes did he add, "and do stay safe."

Thanks Dad.

"There is a bright side here," Al sighs. "A small one, but still. Rosie, where were you the night Scor's name got put in the goblet?"

"How the hell should I know?" She throws up her hands. "That was weeks ago."

My heart leaps as I realize what Al is getting at.

"Think, Rosie," I say. "Is there anyone who would know that you weren't with me 'round midnight? A roommate, or maybe someone you set on fire or something?"

Rosie scratches her chin, considering. "No. No one would have seen me then. I can be your alibi."

I punch the air and nearly whoop with joy.

"Alright," she says. "Let's do this. I'll send the owl as soon as we get back."

Trading solemn nods, the three of us prepare to leave the safety of the gazebo. Rosie and I pull up our hoods, linking arms to make a more compact unit. Al steps out first, clearing the way like some sort of bodyguard.

It's almost liberating, marching through the flashes and urgent questions, now that a story is out there. They have what they want and all we have to do now is control the details. It helps that the story is a lie, so none of this feels real. Our ruse is a pretense of exposure, giving me a hiding place where no one would ever think to look. It was harder when I was just myself, trying not to be seen. Now I can hide in my own shadow.

Rosie taps my arm as we approach the train, indicating something. Turning to her, she surprises me with a kiss. There's one blinding second as the cameras blaze. When the clacking of shutters stops, applause rings out across the crowd. I restrain myself from wiping my lips. Now: _smile for the cameras._

With their cover photo secure, they drift away satisfied. Leaving us alone.

I should have figured this out ages ago.


	10. Cover Story

**CHAPTER TEN  
** _Scorpius tries to be less pathetic._

* * *

 _MADAME GRANGER APPROVES OF SCOROSE_ , the morning headline announces. I'm pretty sure there's a war on in Mesopotamia, but parental approval of a (fictional) school romance still makes the _Sunday Prophet_ 's front page—only just below the fold.

Beauxbatons serves breakfast late on the weekend so the three of us are sat up in the train's common carriage. A fire crackles in the hearth while we loll on the carpet. We're meant to be doing homework, but I can't help but scrutinize the article. Rosie owled her mum the day _Teen Witch_ broke the so-called story, and to my tremendous relief, Ms Granger agreed to play along.

 _According to a statement from D.M.L.E. Head, Hermione Granger, the family has been aware of the relationship for more than a year. 'I've had the pleasure of spending time with Scorpius Malfoy on several occasions,' she adds. 'He's a lovely young man with a good heart.'_

The story as she tells it more or less follows the facts, with the minor change that the name 'Albus' has been swapped out for 'Rose.' In reality, I've never even met Ms Granger, so I doubly appreciate her vouching for my character.

Near the end of the piece falls the comment specially designed to assuage my father: _Madame Granger also put to rest any speculation that engagement rings might be on the horizon. 'They've only just come of age and they've yet to leave school. No one should ever put undue pressure on such a young couple, and they have a right to allow their relationship to take its natural course. I trust that any decisions they make about their future, either together or apart, will be predicated on mutual respect and self-understanding. My husband and I will embrace their choices either way.'_

"It's perfect, right?" Rosie grins. "Now all I have to do is dump you!"

Bodie Summerbee keeps eyeing us from his rolltop desk so I hiss for her to keep her voice down.

"Maybe I could cheat on you," she goes on in a carrying whisper. "So it's extra-obvious you're the good guy."

Al likes the idea of getting the charade over with quickly but I'm a little less enthusiastic. The press will likely cycle onto something else on their own. Hell, Rosie's supposed tryst with a vampire seems to have been forgotten entirely. A public breakup would only create another story to be detailed and dissected. If we let this lie, they'll just get bored and move onto something else. And in the meantime, it's hard to deny that this new story is casting me in a much better light.

I'm the sympathetic underdog now. The Nice Guy shackled by a dark legacy by no fault of his own. My new alibi is even starting to gain traction. The _Quibbler_ ran an op-ed yesterday about possible TriWizard fraud and anonymous interviews from my peers corroborated the fact that I've never, ever been one to seek out extra attention.

I also can't help but notice the kinder, gentler Rose Weasley they've introduced. Our tale of Star Crossed Lovers has primarily focused on her family of origin in order to contrast it to mine, leaving out any details about her actual personality. There are no interviews with students about what Rosie's really like. In fact, the editors probably decided to cut them. For the story to work, she needs to be a romantic heroine. The reality that she's a probable menace to a society isn't narratively convenient.

For the first time, she doesn't have to make up nasty things about herself in order to help me.

"What if we kept it going just until the Yule Ball?" I murmur. "They're expecting us to go together, so let's just go with it for a while. If we don't do anything to complicate things the attention will just fizzle out on its own."

I don't mention that fake-dating Rosie doubles as an excellent cover story for actual-dating Albus.

* * *

The first weeks of December dust the grounds with snow and I double down on my efforts to solve the mystery of the golden horn. Rumour has it that Hervé has already begun training for whatever's to come, but his exact preparations remain a jealously guarded Beauxbatons secret. Lin and I make a pact to share whatever we figure out. So far, we don't have much to go on.

"You put up to ear like this," she says, showing off her latest lead. "And is almost like you can hearing something."

I follow her advice and press the wide end of my own horn over my ear, fully aware how foolish we must look to anyone passing our chamber in the library. She's right that it sort of makes a sound. It's a bit like listening to a seashell and hearing the ocean.

Then again, I'm pretty sure the shell isn't regaling you with the story of its birthplace. A balled hand would provoke the same reaction.

"I dunno," I shrug. "File that one under 'maybe.'"

The pair of us share matching scrolls, bonded through a protean charm, for organizing our notes. This is where we collect our stray observations and theories in case the other person gets inspired by it. I can't help but wonder whether Lin would be so forthcoming if I hadn't done so poorly in the first task. The fact is, I'm no threat to her.

Whatever. I'm just hoping to make it out alive. If I can help Lin beat Hervé, that's an added bonus.

"What do you think about this line here," I say, pointing again at the patterning I keep obsessing over. Most everyone has agreed that it's probably purely decorative but I refuse to believe anything is that simple.

A raised groove circles the cone, a few inches off from what would be the halfway mark, closer to the point. Outside of interrupting the curly pattern, the mark seems to offer no logical function, decorative or otherwise.

Lin gives me the same dismissive sort of squint I probably just gave her and makes a cursory mark on her parchment. On my own copy, I see that she's underlined the word _symbols?_ , but there's nothing else to add.

With a heavy sigh I flip _Trials and Tragedy_ open to the chapter about the golden egg. Lin and I have been over it so much in the last weeks that the margins are crowded with notes. Cradling my chin in my hand, I frown again at the photo of the 1994 clue.

"They had it so easy last time," I say again.

We've been over the logic of the historic Lake Task so carefully that it all appears painfully obvious. Alchemical symbols engraved on the surface, the poetic irony of wrestling them from firespitting beasts… Everything about the golden eggs literally screamed 'water.'

But our clues don't make a sound. In fact, they don't seem to do anything at all. It's impossible to even know where to begin.

My forehead lands heavy on the table as I groan.

"Hey!" A muffled voice shouts. Rosie is stood thumping a fist against the paned glass wall of our study room while Al shakes his head.

"Library, Rosie," he reminds her as I let them in.

"Sorry, but we knew you guys would be on Horn Duty and Al thinks we just got another clue!"

He hands me a crumpled envelope while she beams.

"Dear Albus, hope you're doing well, can't wait for my next visit to France," I mumble, skimming the (perfectly average seeming) letter from his dad. "Sorry, where's the clue?"

"Right there!" Rosie hops from one foot to the other, annoyed. "The part where he talks about picnic weather."

I glance out the window, but the grounds are lost behind a swirl of white.

"If you haven't noticed, Scor, there's a bloody blizzard on."

Skipping back up a few paragraphs, I read the passage more slowly:

 _I've been keeping track of the weather reports, and I'm jealous that I'm not there with you all this week. Make sure you take the time to enjoy it. There's a rooftop courtyard accessible from the eastern tower I thought would make a great spot for a picnic. The view is amazing._

"Come on, bring the horns!" Rosie cries.

"But we don't have any picnic supplies," I say.

"Don't be a duffer. The clue isn't to have a picnic, it's to go to the roof."

We dash through the palace even though we should all be reasonably confident that roof isn't going anywhere. Even Hogwarts, which seemed fond of changing its architecture, never went so far as to forgo that particular feature.

A brutal wind howls as we climb up to the terrace atop the tower. While it's far from picnic weather, Mr Potter's assessment of the view was pretty accurate. This is the highest point in all of Beauxbatons, save the old bell tower—the only structure that remains of the original chateau. This high up, we have a panoramic view of the grounds. Snowy gardens and frozen fountains sprawl, ordered and symmetrical, before the valley tumbles down into wilderness. There's the too-familiar inlet to the south, as well as the dense forest behind the palace.

Lovely as the snowy vista may be, it's only a matter of seconds before the wind tears my face raw.

 _Oh._

My numb fingers fumble the horn. Placing the wide end over my ear, I lean into the gale. Sure enough, something about the narrow aperture filters the storm into a sound. Something like voices, singing.

"Lin, you're a genius!" I laugh, overjoyed, and she follows my lead before breaking into a wide grin.

"It is in French," she says.

I pass Rosie the horn. "Can you translate?"

"Let me see." She copies my gesture and screws up her face. "Elevate… no… something about the hour… hold on."

Muttering along under her breath, she lets the song cycle through a couple of times before offering her interpretation.

"' _Élever à la plus grande hauteur_ ,' that means 'rise to the greatest height' or 'the highest place.' Then ' _et entendre la chanson de l'heure_ is like 'hear the song of the hour.' Or like, 'the song of time.' ' _Rassembler tous les indices_ '—'collect all the clues.' And then the next line is just, like, 'and avoid the filth.' I think that's in there just because they wanted to rhyme. Anyway, ' _pendant une heure, vous serez isolé_ ' is 'for an hour, you will be isolated,' and then it says you have to retrieve the thing they stole."

"So it's going to be another thing like the Hogwarts lake task," Al says. "They'll kidnap someone and you have to go find them."

"Rise to the greatest height and hear the song of the hour…" I say, and Lin follows my gaze up into the distance.

"Well look at you, Mr Clever!" Rosie slaps my shoulder as she catches on.

I'm less thrilled by my discovery; the old bell tower doesn't have any stairs.

"Second task was for swimming," Lin says. "And clue needed water."

If the horn needed air, that must mean we're meant to fly.

Fan-bleeding-tastic.

I only ever had a handful of lessons in first year. I got as far as getting my broom to go ' _up._ '"

It's a small victory that I was right about the symbols. If you look at the horn like a triangle and the ridge as a line, you get the alchemical sign for air. The added swirly pattern should have made it obvious.

"I reckon you'll need to fly most of the time," Rosie adds, unhelpfully. "You'll only have an hour, and the song referenced more than one clue."

"Like a treasure hunt," Al says in too bright a voice. "That doesn't sound too bad."

"They will find ways to make bad," Lin sighs. "Maybe they bring back gargouille to chase us while we flying."

* * *

Al promises to teach me how to fly, so we rent a pair of broomsticks and spend most of our free hours over the next few weeks out on the grounds. We don't even bother bringing Rosie along as cover. Two blokes playing one-a-side Quidditch is probably the most hetero activity imaginable.

"Come on, just kick off," he urges.

I shake my head furiously.

So far, I've more or less figured out how to steer, but I refuse to go any higher than what would allow my toes to brush the snow. Nothing about sitting on a wooden stick while flinging my body through the air sounds safe.

"You're gonna have to make it up to the belltower eventually. Just do like this." He pushes off and rises gracefully. "Then when you want to go down, just lean forward and point the handle." He swoops lower before pulling to a stop a few metres above the ground.

I shield my eyes against the winter sun and look up at him. "You're really good at all this."

Al just shrugs. "Both my parents are really into Quidditch, so we played a lot when I was growing up. But flying was always more of James' thing and I didn't fancy playing for Slytherin against him."

Knowing that he and his siblings were whizzing about on brooms back when they were still in single digits makes me feel pathetic. Closing my eyes tight, I kick off the ground. I warble up unsteadily and throw my arms around the handle, holding on for dear life, which only makes me careen more.

"Blimey, be careful!" He zooms toward me and seizes my broomstick. "Sit up straight or you'll be bumping around all over the place."

Sitting up straight sounds terrifying. Al holds my handle steady while I arrange myself into a less absurd position. Then, I make the mistake of looking down.

"Bloody hell, we're really high up!" My panic makes me waver on the spot.

"It's okay, just look at me," he says. "It's easier if you relax."

"I hate this."

"I know. Come on, now lean forward like this."

I copy Al and we take off, cutting through the crisp, December air. It's at once the most terrifying and most magnificent thing I've ever felt. My stomach seems suspended in a constant state of leaping and I can barely keep my watering eyes open. Al keeps reminding me to relax, which is difficult, but eventually I'm able to hold an even keel and stop lurching so much.

Following his lead, we speed up, overtaking the rolling valley below at a breathtaking pace.

"Now lean back," he shouts over the howling wind. "And slow down."

I pull to a shuddering stop beside him, face flushed with cold, and can't help but grin.

"Fun, isn't it?"

"Well, it's definitely not boring," I say.

Once he decides I'm reasonably comfortable with the basics of flying, we descend to a less dangerous height.

"The Lake Task wasn't just swimming and stuff." He produces a red Quidditch ball. "The champions had to battle grindylows and things."

Next up: learn how to fly while engaging in literally any other activity at the same time. As if defying gravity atop a mere household object weren't enough of an accomplishment.

"Catch." Al tosses me the ball and I flinch.

"Okay, let's try that again. _Accio Quaffle_."

Airborne multitasking proves incredibly difficult, and I struggle to keep my broomstick steady while I try to throw or catch. Mostly, I jerk around uncontrollably. Every time I try to dodge I lose control and fall into a tailspin. After a mere half hour, I'm sore from a dozen heavy falls onto the frozen earth.

"You're getting a lot better!" Al insists as we glide back down.

"You are the world's most patient person," I say, stepping tenderly onto solid ground.

My limbs are stiff from cold and aching as we head back to the train to shower before supper. Wiping away the steam on the mirror, I explore the blue bruises blooming across my back. An afternoon spent perilously flying over the snowy grounds has left me tired and hungry.

"I unpacked my dress robes, if you want to try them on," Al says when I return to the bedroom. A rumple of forest green lays on the covers.

"They're nice," I say, holding them up in front of me, but they aren't really my colour.

 _Merlin, I am a brat._

"They were my dad's," Al shrugs.

"What?"

"Yeah, my nan tailored them over the summer to make them longer, so they shouldn't be too short on you."

"Al, I am _not_ wearing your dad's old robes to the Yule Ball."

Firstly, the press would have a field day remarking on a seemingly desperate Potter comparison. Secondly, it would be weird.

"Suit yourself." He shrugs.

"Besides, then what would you wear?"

"Does it really matter? I might not even go."

 _Noooooooooo._

He and I bicker about the ball all the way to dinner. The only bright spot I have to look forward to is that, once my ceremonial duties dancing with Rosie are out of the way, I'll be able to hang out with him. It'll be miserable if he isn't there, and I'll spend the whole time missing him.

Food makes us both a lot less grumpy, and Lin soon joins us at our table.

"Alboos, do you know who you are going with to ball?"

He and I share a pointed glance before he shrugs 'no.' The champion bites her lip.

The Durmstrang Drama turns out to be pretty intricate. Apparently, she and Pavel had been in a relationship for more than two years before he confessed to cheating with a Russian witch in the grade below. While upset by the betrayal, Lin couldn't help but be relieved that the relationship had come to an end, having since grown weary of his constant partying. But as the two shared a great deal of history, she was happy to rekindle the friendship during the voyage from Norway.

At the same time, feelings were beginning to develop between her and an Austrian named Henrik.

"So now both are trying for asking me to ball, and I'm worrying I lose both of them," she finishes, miserably.

As most of her Durmstrang friends have more or less picked up on the fact that Al and I are a couple, he would make the most neutral companion.

 _Well this is convenient._

"Yeah, sure," he says, ladling himself more fish stew. "I'll go to the ball with you."

"Thank you!" Lin cries and throws her arms around his neck.

I feel equally appreciative to her for giving Al a reason to go. At the same time, I can't help but wonder who Hervé ends up taking. He'll most likely end up the only champion with a genuine date. And one needs only to look at him to know he probably has his pick of any witch in the school.

Buoyed by the fact that I'll be joined at the Yule Ball by my three favorite people, I help myself to another serving of creamed potatoes. All this flying has done wonders for my appetite.

All of a sudden, something knocks against the back of my head and I start. Two owls flap their wings and awkwardly drop a long box on the table, splattering me with a spray of stew.

"It says is for you," Lin notes, carefully dislodging a corner of the box from her plate.

Al and I trade confused glances before I gently tear back the brown paper. Inside sits a silver garment box embossed with the name of a French designer. My curiosity deepens. Pulling back the gently stew-stained tissue paper, I spy a parchment card sitting upon a bed of grey silk.

 _I recall that it's been some time since you've gotten new dress robes,_ the familiar cursive reads. _Let me know if they need further tailoring._

Just below sits the cramped, fussy signature I've so often forged on Hogsmeade permission slips; _Draco Malfoy._


End file.
